


The Tragedy of John Watson

by now_im_just_some_sherlock_that



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hallucinations, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post The Reichenbach Fall, Schizophrenia, Sleep Deprivation, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:03:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/now_im_just_some_sherlock_that/pseuds/now_im_just_some_sherlock_that
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after The Fall, and John Watson is solving cases with the help of Sherlock Holmes. The only problem? This Sherlock is the creation of his own mind. John balances on the line of sanity as he begins to piece together the truth of Sherlock's death, with the help of Sherlock himself. But can he hold himself together long enough to do so? And will he like where his path leads?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Melancholy of John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> [Cover by The_Consulting_Storyteller](http://archiveofourown.org/works/984901)
> 
> A HUGE thank-you to The_Consulting_Storyteller for this lovely cover! TwT

Snow drifted down to meet John Watson, causing him to shiver and wrinkle his nose. The blanket was piling up quickly, and it crunched under his feet, a constant reminder that winter had arrived. His shoes were hardly waterproof, having soaked through long ago, his toes now cold and numb. Flakes stuck into his hair, as well as clung to his black shooting jacket. Some of the bolder flakes landed on the back of his neck, or sneaked their way beneath John's coat collar, causing him to shiver all the more.

 

_A scarf would prevent that._

 

The voice was familiar and snarky, echoing throughout John's mind. He wished it would shut up, even though it spoke the truth. A scarf did well to keep the snowflakes and cold out of his collar and away from his neck. It wasn't worth it though- scarfs were an unpleasant reminder.

 

With each step he took, he added to the trail from Sherlock's grave. He'd ridden a cab to the cemetery— it had just started snowing then—but it wasn't all  _that_ far. It would be easier to walk back to the flat then to attempt getting a cab in the snow. Besides, he enjoyed the time to himself- time to think without having to piece together fake bits of conversation.

 

Three years had passed since Sherlock's death, yet John remained ever loyal to the man. It hadn't taken long to begin noticing the effects—over the following months, John's limp had returned, worse than ever. It was even more frustrating now—now that he knew the cause, yet was still unable to “fix” it. While the limp had returned over time, the nightmares had started up almost instantly. At first, John had been unable to sleep entirely because of them. Now, while he was able to sleep hours at a time, a decent night's sleep was still a joke. Now, he  _longed_ for the nightmares of war—of seeing his comrades being gunned down. He would welcome them, if it meant his present nightmares would vanish—if they would prove to be simply  _nightmares_ , and not reality. 

 

Now, it was always  _his_ face—pale and bloodied. Eyes seemed to stare into nowhere, completely vacant and dead. Over and over, he lived it again, every night, as if stuck in some hellish limbo—as if each time, he was given a chance to “fix” it, and yet he continued to fail, just as he was unable to “fix” himself. He'd awake with a start, drenched in a cold sweat, breathing heavy and painful as if he'd just completed a marathon he hadn't trained for. His eyes would search blindingly in the darkness, fingers tangling and clutching at the cold comforter of his bed, and he'd call out softly to Sherlock. There'd be a pause, and he'd call again, and again, until it became a mantra—a prayer. It would become desperate—he'd begin to beg, yet will away the tears that pricked at his eyes, until he'd once again doze off to restart his nightmare, being doomed to fail once more from the start. 

 

Of course, he'd told his therapist very little of this, but apparently he'd told her  _enough—_ she wasn't a stupid woman. She'd pieced most of it together, John was sure. At first, John had loyally visited Sherlock's grave every day, with no exceptions. Going on like that for nearly a year, his therapist had pushed him to pull back, just a bit. John was entirely aware that she was attempting to help him move on, but he didn't  _want_ to. He'd then begun to wonder why he was attending therapy at all—he hated how things were now, but he certainly couldn't move on from Sherlock. 

 

After a year, John had begun to visit Sherlock's grave less—much to his displeasure. He'd no longer go on weekends, instead only visiting weekdays after work. He even tried cutting it down to three days a week, but that he was unable to stand, and had stuck to every weekday ever since.

 

It was a Monday, on this particular day, which meant that John had taken along a bottle of some foul cleaning liquid, provided by Mrs. Hudson, and some dirty rags. Three years, and it was still common to find graffiti on Sherlock's grave. John didn't know how it happened—he knew someone was supposed to be watching over the cemetery to make sure that it  _didn't_ . However, almost without fail, after every weekend, John would come to find foul words painted onto the headstone, or garbage littering the area. That made Monday cleaning day—John would take time to scrub away the paint, and collect the garbage. Sometimes he'd pull weeds or bring flowers—anything he could do to keep the grave looking nice. He knew it was foolish, even as he did it, but he still couldn't help himself, as if it was his final desperate act of taking care of the man he'd come to care for so deeply. He could no longer order Sherlock to eat a meal, or get some sleep, but at least there was this. 

 

John lost track of time as he walked, though he was sure it took quite a while to reach 221B. The coldness of winter made his leg ache more than ever, and he quickly regretted not calling for a cab, but as his eyes scanned the silent road, there were none to be seen—the moment you needed or wanted something, it was sure to not be there.

 

Eventually the familiar green door of 221B came into view, causing John to breathe a sigh of relief- his breath came out in a visible cloud, due to the chill. After climbing the few stairs to the door, he kicked snow from his shoes, as well as tapped the end of his cane on the step before heading in. Mrs. Hudson was there to greet him in an instant.

 

“Afternoon, John. Biscuits are in the oven—I'll bring some up,” she stated with a smile. John forced a smile and nodded thankfully before heading up the creaky wooden stairs to the next floor.

 

He felt for Mrs. Hudson—he really did. He knew that Sherlock's death had hit her almost as hard as it had hit him—as if she'd lost a son, really—but she continued to fret and worry over John. She couldn't have missed the return of his limp, or the fact that his jumpers hung much looser on him than they previously had. Still, she never pointed it out, simply offering to help in small ways, such as bringing John snacks without him asking, or mentioning certain pain reliefs that had worked “surprisingly well” for her hip pains. Ever the mother, concerned for her one remaining son—the one left behind.

 

The flat was colder than it had once been. It had always had poor insulation, but John had always been overheated from running around town with Sherlock, or even on their evenings in, there was often a fire made. The fireplace had sat empty for some time—no sense in making a fire for just himself.

 

For the most part, the flat looked the same as it had when he'd shared it with the consulting detective. A bit more tidy, he supposed, without Sherlock to make a mess of it all the time- the kitchen table was cleared of experiments, Sherlock's violin was tucked safely away in its case, and no papers could be seen strewn about. At first, John had tried packing up things—both his own, as well as Sherlock's, yet he'd never been able to get very far. The tears would prick past his eyes, and before he knew it, he'd be suppressing sobs. Mrs. Hudson had always offered to help, but it became very clear that it would be just as painful to move away from 221B—to move on—as it would be to stay. 221B was the last thread left to cling to of the life he'd once shared with Sherlock Holmes.

 

Before, John would have slid his jumper off to hang near the door, next to Sherlock's coat, or drape over the back of one of the armchairs. Now, he often opted to keep it on to fight off the constant chill of the flat. Not only that, but it pained him to see the empty coat rack—he'd seen it many times before, when Sherlock had been off at the morgue, or on a case in which he had not needed John's assistance with. The empty coat rack simply meant that John had to be patient and wait, and in a few hours time, Sherlock would return. John was now in an odd limbo, waiting an eternity for Sherlock to return, though knowing the impossibility of it all.

 

Instead, John simply went to sit in his armchair as he so often did. Sherlock's was still across from his own, and some nights, if John got tired enough (or had too much to drink), and stared hard enough, he could _almost_ see Sherlock staring back at him from the chair. Just as he was about to sit, he paused, glancing over at Sherlock's violin case. At times, he'd open it, stroking his fingertips gently across the strings of the instrument, though it often caused him to wince, as if the sound produced was offensive. It would remind him of Sherlock sitting near the fireplace in his chair, plucking away at the strings as he tuned the violin. Silently, John made his way over to the case, his fingers brushing the dusty, rough fabric. No, he wouldn't open it today—the strings would be out of tune, as always, begging for Sherlock to return and give them proper attention.

 

The doctor turned to the cabinet, which neither he nor Sherlock had ever used for anything but a catch-all. Slowly, he knelt to the floor once more, his leg screaming in protest. Reaching under the desk, he dug around until his hand bumped against a hard, familiar case, which he nudged at until he finally got a decent grip on it, pulling it from underneath the cabinet. There had been a time when John had frequently pulled the gun case from its hiding place, always making sure to take it with him when Sherlock called him off to a case. However, nowadays it remained nearly forgotten, surrounded by dust bunnies.

 

After rearranging himself, John sat back onto the floor, opening the case to stare down at the gun he'd grown so used to holding—he'd shot that gun, killing a man, on the first case he'd ever taken with Sherlock. He'd shot it many times—one more time wouldn't make a difference, would it?

 

John Watson had never been a suicidal man—true, he'd dealt a great deal with a range of emotional issues, but those were all after effects of war, and hardly uncommon for veterans. But this was different—he'd been extremely melancholy since Sherlock's death. Unable to focus too long, his mind would constantly drift to the man. John had nearly given up dating completely, finding it very clear that he wasn't “into” the dates he went on. Besides, it was too much work—more people to smile artificially for. He was sick of acting. John had trust issues—everyone and their uncle seemed to have learned that by now. He'd trusted Sherlock more than anyone, and he found himself completely unable to trust anyone else.

 

Absentmindedly, John's fingers ran over the gun in its case, as gently as if they _were_ in fact handling Sherlock's violin. The gun was cold, yet welcoming—it would be fast—over in an instant. John really didn't have any particular expectations for an afterlife—perhaps Sherlock would be waiting for him in something similar to Heaven. If not, perhaps he could simply sleep and not have to worry about waking up.

 

“Suicide seems a bit dramatic for you,” came a familiar voice from the kitchen doorway. “Much too selfish for the John Watson I know.”

 

“I'm not the John Watson you know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I know this chapter is rather slow, and for that, I apologize. I hope I haven't scared you away. Hopefully the next chapter will be more interesting.


	2. The Boredom of Sherlock Holmes

“I'm not the John Watson you know,” John muttered softly in reply. He shifted on the floor to glance behind him, and there stood Sherlock Holmes in the entryway to the kitchen, leaning against the frame of the large doorway. He looked the same as ever—as if three years hadn't passed—same long dark coat, same blue scarf. His hair had not been cut shorter, nor had it grown longer. It fell in its curls, seeming to frame his face, simply looking the _same_ :same knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—same bloody cheekbones. A true Peter Pan of his day, it seemed.

 

“Really, John, there's no need to be dramatic.” Ah. Same voice, too. John was half-tempted to throw something at the man, though there was nothing in his immediate reach except the gun and its case. Thinking on this, John breathed out a quick sigh before locking the case once more and nudging it into its hiding space. It took a bit of struggle to stand after being on the floor for a bit too long, and the doctor had to use the assistance of both his cane and the nearby arm chair to pull himself up to his feet, his leg screaming in agony and protest.

 

“Go to the cemetery again?” Sherlock questioned with a cocked head, piercing eyes quickly glancing over John. Of course, he waited for no answer before answering for himself. “Ah yes, you've definitely been out in the snow. It _is_ a  Monday— cleaning day?” John sent the man a dirty look before rolling his eyes and brushing past him into the kitchen, limping the entire way. 

 

“Glad to see that my taking care of your grave _means_ so much to you,” the blond nearly growled in reply. After a bit of searching, John finally came across two mugs.  It was a mystery to John as to why Sherlock and he had never bothered buying more mugs, as any _logical_ person would do. It was always a bother when they had guests over, because there were never enough mugs for tea—they'd borrowed some from Mrs. Hudson more than once. John set the kettle to boil before turning to face Sherlock, who was still watching him from the entryway to the kitchen. 

 

“It _doesn't_ mean anything to me. It's pointless, John. I hardly see why you insist upon wasting your time caring for an inanimate object,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. “Especially with that limp of yours, I imagine it's quite difficult for you. You know that's all in your head.” John's jaw clenched in frustration, and he sent the man a hard look.

 

“Yes, I _know_ it's in my head.” Sherlock looked unconvinced, and he arched a brow in amusement.

 

“ _Do_ you?” 

 

“Look, can't you find something better to do?” John questioned in reply, electing not to respond directly to the detective's taunting. Breathing a sigh, Sherlock cast a weary glance towards the table.Blue eyes glanced over the empty space, as if seeing what was not there; the man seemed lost, but only briefly, before he glanced back at John, who had busied himself in the search for the can of tea leaves. 

 

“I _had_ something better to do before you threw my experiments out,” He stated pointedly. John breathed out a martyred sigh, finally finding the tea leaves. He poured hot water into each cup and began to prepare tea in each. John took plenty of milk in his tea, though very limited to no sugar. Sherlock, being the opposite, took sugar but no milk. “John, what on earth am I supposed to _do_? I've been cooped up in here for ages. Have you got any new cases?”

 

“If there were any new cases, you'd be the first to know,” John assured him, grabbing the two mugs of tea after they were fully prepared and heading back into the sitting room. Sherlock groaned in frustration as John brushed passed him before turning to follow after him. Carefully, John set his own mug of tea on the small table beside his armchair, before setting Sherlock's on a somewhat sturdy stack of books beside the other. He then slid back into his own armchair with a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing his leg, which seemed to silently thank him. Blowing gently on his tea, he took a careful sip as Sherlock moved to sit into the chair across from him, not touching the tea set out.

 

“I don't see how you can stand to sit around like this and do nothing,” Sherlock spat, sinking lower in his chair with a damaged sigh. “Your brain is so simple—you're content with wasting away in here. But give me  _ work _ .” 

 

“I  _ don't _ sit around and do nothing,” John protested, growing frustrated. He set his tea aside once more, eying the detective. “I go to work every day—”

 

“Even with that limp of yours.”

 

“—Yes, even  _ with _ the limp. I go to work, and whenever the Yard gets on my arse about a case, I  _ limp _ off to help as best as I can.” John felt a headache growing—as if he needed something else to be wrong—and his head dropped into his hands as he tried to massage his temples, willing it to go away. This was exhausting. 

 

“Yes, and can you say that you're  _ living _ ?” Sherlock growled in response. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands coming together in his trademark “thinking” pose. “You can't focus at work. You're not sleeping.” His eyes narrowed, most likely in thought. “Who do you talk to, John?  _ Other _ than me.”

 

“No one!” John barked in reply, his voice finally rising. “I keep to myself, alright. I'm  _ content _ on my own.”

 

“I thought you said that was unhealthy.”

 

“Let it go, yeah?!”A light cough tore John from the argument he was currently having, and he looked to the doorway to see Mrs. Hudson, standing with a plate of the promised biscuits. Her eyes were filled with the utmost concern, and she looked as if she was silently debating something.

 

“John, dear....are you sure you're alright?” she questioned softly. John could tell she was trying to be delicate with her words. Holding back a sigh, John cleared his throat and grabbed his cane, standing carefully once more.

 

“Yeah, fine,” he replied, sending a weak smile at the woman. He felt guilty for worrying her, especially when she herself was still mourning over Sherlock's death. John knew that she didn't need something  _ else _ to worry about. “Why do you ask?” 

 

“It's just.....you've been talking to yourself for quite some time.”

 

*

 

John groaned to himself as he made his way carefully down the steps of 221B and out onto the sidewalk. It had stopped snowing for the moment, thankfully, though he could see that his previously made footprints had become partially covered under fresh flakes. It was quiet, and a few cars drove lazily down the road, damaging the perfect blanket of snow.

 

The doctor had gone somewhat pale at Mrs. Hudson's statement, and upon almost frantically glancing back to Sherlock's armchair, he had found that Sherlock Holmes had vanished into thin air—as he always did. Mrs. Hudson had followed his gaze somewhat wearily to stare at the empty chair, before her eyes fell upon the mug of tea beside it. John had apologized multiple times, thankfully saved by a text about a new case. After grabbing his cane and jacket, and apologizing one final time, he'd hurried out of the flat before Mrs. Hudson had gotten the chance to say anything further.

 

With a sigh and a curse, John zipped his jacket up before shoving his hands deep into the pockets. Sherlock had appeared once more at his side, walking briskly as he always did when they were headed to a crime scene. As usual, John had to hurry to keep up, especially with his cane, and when his eyes flicked to Sherlock's feet, he could clearly see that the man made no footprints. It made him uneasy, and he quickly glanced back ahead of him in order to avoid the seemingly impossible observation. Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, breathing a chuckle of amusement.

 

“John, you've known for some time that I'm not real. It shouldn't start to bother you now,” he stated.

 

“That doesn't mean I'm _comfortable_ with it,” John replied, though he was very much aware that it was a desperate attempt to convince himself as such. He breathed out yet another sigh, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “It doesn't mean I'll get usedto it.” The problem though, as it seemed, was that John _had_ gotten used to it. He'd been so used to talking to Sherlock that it almost seemed as natural as simple bodily functions, such as breathing. Breathing was natural—your body knew how to do it. You never thought about breathing, until the idea was brought up, or something prevented you from doing so. That's when it became a problem. It was easy for John to go on in conversation with this Sherlock, because speaking with Sherlock was a normal function—he never stopped to think that this Sherlock was a creation of his own mind, unless something happened to make him _remember_ that fact.

 

“What is there to get _used_ to?” Sherlock protested, glancing over his shoulder at the shorter man. A light breeze did nothing to rustle Sherlock's curls, though once John consciously noted this, they danced softly in the wind as naturally as ever. John grumbled to himself, catching up to Sherlock once again. “Other people talk to themselves all the time.”

 

“Yeah, this is a bit _different_ , Sherlock,” John replied, sending the man an icy look.

 

“I don't see how,” Sherlock snorted in reply. John's mouth opened to reply, though he quickly closed it as a woman and a young child passed them on the sidewalk. The woman kept a firm grip on the boy's shoulder, and John was unable to miss the odd look she sent him just as they brushed past. John closed his eyes briefly in order to curse himself for not paying better attention—after how long he'd been seeing Sherlock, one would think that he would have paid more attention to his surroundings—to make sure not to talkto this hallucination when other people were around.

 

It was difficult, though— _very_ difficult. After all, Sherlock was the one John had grown to trust the most- _trust_ , from the person who had trust issues. That was a big leap for John.

 

“Perhaps that's why it's _me_ that you see,” Sherlock stated. After glancing behind him quickly to check that the woman and her son were long gone, John turned back to send Sherlock a sharp look.

 

“Stay out of my mind.”

 

“I _am_ your mind.”

 

John didn't reply, as he spotted a police car approaching. It gradually slowed, very carefully pulling up to the curb just beside John. Sally Donovan peered at him from inside the car, clearly irritated that she hadn't found him waiting just outside of 221B as he usually was. Hurrying around to the other side of the car, John slid into the passenger seat, and Sally quickly pulled away from the curb once more without a word.

 

“I'll never understand why you ride in these bloody cars,” Sherlock's voice complained from the back. “You _could_ just get a cab, you know.” These were the worst situations—when Sherlock spoke and John very clearly couldn't reply, because there were people around. John peeked into the back of the car briefly. Sherlock had _never_ ridden in the police cars—he'd always followed in a cab. Though, it was quite difficult to catch a cab in the snow.

 

“Snow is a pathetic excuse, John,” Sherlock scolded, reading John's mind as usual. No—that was wrong—as Sherlock had said, he _was_ John's mind. “You always take these cars, even when you could follow in a cab. You're not beginning to fancy her, are you?” Sherlock sent a disgusted look at Sally, which pulled a martyred sigh from John's lungs. Sally glanced at John, her eyes slightly surprised and questioning, though she said nothing.

 

Sally and John didn't speak often. John had partially blamed her, at first, for Sherlock's death—he'd blamed many others also: Lestrade, and Anderson, and _all_ of them for doubting Sherlock. But it had grown exhausting, as had everything else, so while he had by no means _forgiven_ Sally, he had to tolerate her—he saw her often enough at crime scenes, and she was generally the one sent to pick him up to go to said crime scenes. Still, they never got to talking much, and they probably both preferred it that way.

 

“As I was saying before,” Sherlock continued from the back seat, “everyone talks to themselves. You just have a more unique way of doing it. A more efficient way, in my opinion.” John forced himself not to roll his eyes, and he could practically hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice. “Quite a good way of sorting through your thoughts. More efficient than a mind-palace, actually. You don't have to do any of the searching—I do it all for you.” Yes, there was that, but also the fact that it was tipping him closer towards insanity.

 

“You're not insane, John.” John hated this—the real Sherlock had to work and deduce to pick John apart. This Sherlock was in his mind 24/7—he was _composed_ of his thoughts and ideas, and memories. Nothing could be hidden from this Sherlock. “Well, not _that_ insane. I'm merely your way of....coping.”

 

John glared out the window as the car continued along; knowing Sherlock was right—or rather, knowing he _himself_ was right. People coped with loss in many different ways. Some turned to drugs, others turned to self-harm, while others turned to alcohol. Alcoholism ran in his family, and while John had begun drinking a little more than he'd like to admit since Sherlock's death, that wasn't really his way of coping. This... this odd hallucination, was his way of coping.

 

Or perhaps, it was his way of completely falling apart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So, I hope this isn't boring you guys to tears. I do believe things will begin rolling in the next chapter. I'll give you a hint: a certain female is going to make an appearance.  
> Also, you may or may not be noticing a pattern in the chapter titles as we go along. I actually ripped them off of a certain series- anyone have any guesses? Until next time!


	3. the Disappearance of Irene Adler

“I've told you before, _don't_ distract me while I'm at a crime scene,” John scolded, frustration evident upon his face—his extremely _tired_ face. He felt a headache beginning to throb at his temples, slowly making its way farther back into his skull.

 

John was once again crunching through the snow, making his way back to 221B. He'd been outside a great deal too much, in his opinion, for a day with so much snow. After nearly warming up completely in 221B from his trek in the cemetery, journeying out to a crime scene did nothing but freeze him half to death a  _second_ time that day, and put him in a foul mood. Unlike Sherlock, John didn't exactly  _crave_ the puzzles that cases presented. It was the “battlefield” he craved—the chase, the risk, the near-brushes with death. 

 

There was none of that now,  _especially_ with John's limp. Of course, Sherlock had always been the one to take off after a criminal without a second thought, not even bothering to consider the consequences—leaving John to chase after as back up—as  _protection_ . While the detective had always seemed extremely confident in his abilities, and almost conceded, John had noticed that, much to his surprise, the man seemed to value his life very little. He was willing to get himself killed, if it meant  _living_ with the thrill and mystery of a good puzzle. Though John supposed he himself wasn't much better— _he_ certainly didn't value his life all that much, and he craved that adrenaline rush of putting his life on the line. He supposed that was what had initially attracted the two of them to one another, at first, anyways. Sherlock's craving for puzzles and cases provided John with the adrenaline rush he desperately needed, and vice-verse. In a way, the two of them seemed to enable one another.

 

An odd case of yin and yang, the two of them seemed to be—without one, the other was somewhat disabled in a way.

 

“I wasn't distracting you. I was assisting you,” Sherlock protested, keeping in step beside John. “You should know that _just_ because you're my assistant, doesn't mean half of the police force necessarily trusts you.” 

 

John grumbled a few choice words to himself, feeling the snow beginning to soak through his shoes to his already-soggy socks for the second time that day. Of course, Sally had offered to drive him home—not that she necessarily  _ wanted _ to, Dimmock had insisted—but John had somewhat politely declined, explaining that he'd just catch a cab on the main road. Which he hadn't done, of course, and had been walking ever since. The crime scene had been a decent distance from Baker Street, and the cold caused John's leg to ache, but he'd much rather walk than venture another car ride with his imaginary friend. 

 

“ _ Dimmock _ trusts me,” John pointed out.

 

“He  _ tolerates  _ you. He has his doubts.”

 

With a brief shake of his head, John continued, 221B finally coming into view. He couldn't remember exactly  _ when _ he'd started taking cases in place of Sherlock—a few months after the man's death, he supposed. It hadn't really been something he'd  _ wanted _ to do, but at the time Dimmock had practically  _ begged _ him to. John had been quite shocked, really—he had no doubt that the police force was aware that John was merely Sherlock's assistance, along for the ride. He was  _ no _ Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, Sherlock had paced the room slowly, listening to the conversation, only noticeable to John. He'd turned to John and grinned.

 

“Come now, John—you know my methods.”

 

And ever since, John had been solving cases in Sherlock's place, though he dared not take on the title of “consulting detective”—it seemed wrong, somehow, and honestly it wasn't a title that he wanted. John would arrive at the crime scene, and Sherlock would point things out, guiding him through the process of observation and deduction. He'd make sarcastic clips, as always, in response to Anderson, as well as many of the other employees of Scotland Yard. At first it had been difficult to focus with Sherlock shooting observations at him in one ear, and police officers asking a number of questions in the other. At times John had slipped and responded to  _ Sherlock _ , having been so used to doing so at crime scenes. The officers would simply blink in confusion and stare at him, and John would clear his throat and go about answering their questions as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary. 

 

No, he was no Sherlock Holmes, but at least he could offer  _ some _ assistance in his place.

 

After the first few cases, John had become increasingly aware of Lestrade's absence at the crime scenes. It  _ almost _ made it feel as if it  _ wasn't _ a crime scene without the man there. When he'd questioned Dimmock about it, the sergeant-gone-DI had been extremely vague about it— “he's been transferred to another division”— and that's all John had gotten out of him. Of course, John had his own theories....but he kept them to himself. 

 

“Well obviously they trust me  _ enough _ to continue asking for my help with cases,” John replied as he stomped up the snow-covered stairs to the door of 221B. After kicking the snow from his shoes, he headed into the building, breathing in relief as warmth greeted him. Scents drifted down the hallway to him, proof that Mrs. Hudson was once again baking—something chocolatey, from the smell of it. 

 

The army doctor once again took his time traveling up the wooden stairs, which groaned under his weight. Sherlock continued to ramble behind him, though John only focused half of his attention on him.

 

“In all honestly, it's foolish of them to assume that you're as capable as I am when it comes to solving cases-  _ just _ because you're my assistant, or flatmate, or  _ whatever _ .”

 

“I don't think they  _ do _ assume that,” John replied, finally reaching the top of the stairs. His leg was aching from the chill, as well as all the walking he'd done that day—he definitely needed a good long rest, and some hot tea. 

 

“They're all idiots though—unfortunately, you probably are more able as far as solving cases than  _ any _ of them. Besides, they make things too difficult—too many hoops to jump through that are merely a waste of time. If Lestrade was still Detective Inspector, he'd let me do as I please.”

 

“I don't understand why they just don't ask your brother to help with some of the cases instead of me,” John stated, finally making his way into the flat once more and breathing out a sigh of relief.

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, joining John in the sitting room. “While he's certainly able, he dislikes legwork. He wouldn't bother himself.” Sherlock paused, opening his mouth as if he had more to say, though something seemed to have caught his attention. Slowly, his mouth closed, and the smallest of smirks slid along his lips. It was that damn mischievous smirk that  _ rarely _ meant anything good. “Do you smell that?”

 

John's brow furrowed in confusion, though he'd learned well enough in the past to trust Sherlock's observations. His mouth closed—having been open to respond to the man—and he sniffed softly at the air. It took him a moment to separate the multiple scents he caught—the lingering smokey smell from a long-gone fire that seemed to refuse to vanish entirely. Then there was the distant scent that John had caught upon entering the building—that of Mrs. Hudson's baking, a sweet chocolatey smell. But there was one scent in particular that John finally identified, and it instantly made John's stomach churn, if only a little. It was a sharp scent, and difficult to pick apart, though surely Sherlock would have been able to. John, however, was only able to note a select few hints in it—sandalwood and patchouli were the most obvious, along with some softer fruity scents—peach, mango, raspberry, perhaps, as well as a touch of....Jasmine. That was all John could make of it, though there were other touches he couldn't identify. Still, as a whole, he recognized the perfume quite well, and it made him shudder. Sherlock seemed all too amused by it.

 

Quietly, and slowly, John took a few steps deeper into the sitting room, his cane clutched firmly in his hand. Extremely hesitantly, he peeked into the kitchen, only to see exactly what he'd feared—Irene Adler. She sat on one of the two stiff, uncomfortable dining room chairs at the now uncluttered table, sipping a cup of tea she'd clearly taken upon herself to make. John ruffled a bit at the idea of her bustling around his kitchen—like a _housewife—_ preparing tea for herself.

 

“Afternoon, Dr. Watson,” she said, placing her cup into its saucer before setting it aside on the table. She glanced over John's shoulder to stare out the sitting room window, arching a smooth brow. “Or perhaps I should say evening. You've been out a while.” The woman sent him an innocent smile which did not suit her, nor which he believed in the least. John didn't dare turn his back on her, though he had no doubt that the sky was beginning to darken outside.

 

He was hesitant and cautious, as one _should_ be around Irene Adler. Her mere presence was most certainly impossible, yet there she was. Of course, John glanced quickly at Sherlock, reminding himself that _he_ was an impossibility as well, and John was left to question himself as to just _how_ far he'd gone from sanity. His mind itched to question the woman as to _how_ she was possibly alive, yet he wasn't entirely sure that she _was_ alive. While he'd lied about her being alive to Sherlock, Mycroft had _assured_ him that Irene had been killed in Pakistan. So either Mycroft had been _wrong_ , which seemed a bit unlikely, or this Irene was yet another hallucination John was having, similar to that of Sherlock.

 

Irene seemed to sense John's inner struggle, and she stared at him curiously as John said nothing in reply. She stood, making her way from the kitchen to the sitting room, her sharp eyes glancing over John all the while, as if attempting to understand something.

 

“Why don't you have a seat?” She suggested, smiling at him. Her hair was no longer brunette, but a rather mousy brown which didn't suit her. She wore it down, and while John had seen it that way before, that didn't suit her either.

 

“I'd rather stand, thanks,” he finally replied, sharply, still debating whether or not she was real. He was aware of Sherlock slowly making his way around the room, simply observing the two of them. Irene said nothing in reply, the smile of amusement tugging at her lips being enough of a response, and she sunk down into one of the armchairs— _Sherlock's_ armchair, which made John ruffle all over again. It seemed that she'd caught John previously eying her hair.

 

“I know, it's not me.” She leaned back comfortably in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “But one has to make sacrifices when they're in hiding.” In hiding........that meant...

 

“So you're....alive, then?” John questioned, still extremely cautiously. Irene sent him a confused look, observing him a moment more—and John couldn't help but feel that she was picking him apart—before chuckling.

 

“Who were you talking to, before, when you walked in?” A question as a response—he should have expected as much. Though it was enough to tell him that she _didn't_ see Sherlock, which meant she was most likely, in fact, alive.

 

“How are you here?” John finally questioned, refusing to answer _her_ question. It wasn't as if he was eager to admit the fact that he was slowly losing his mind—that he was seeing his dead best friend. Irene glanced to her right, eying the cup of now-cold tea John had made hours ago and set out for Sherlock.

 

“Nothing you need to worry yourself about,” she replied simply.

 

“I'm not _worried_ about it,” John growled. “But it takes quite a bit to fake your death _twice_.” A smirk slid across Irene's lips as she glanced back at John once more, looking somewhat like a predator.

 

“I guess that _does_ make me special.” John took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, though he was reminded of a particular conversation the two of them had had years ago, that he disliked to think back on. Finally, John limped the short distance to his own chair, sinking into it while holding back a soft groan of pain, before setting his cane aside.

 

“Fine. _Why_ are you here?” John questioned instead, sending a rather icy look at the dominatrix across from him. “If you're in hiding, it would probably be wise to _stay_ in hiding.” John certainly had no desire to see her again, or to reflect back on to the case she'd been involved in. Irene once againglanced over John's shoulder, this time into the kitchen, as if only just then realizing that she'd left her tea on the table.

 

“Yes, now you're asking the _right_ questions.” Out of the corner of his eyes, John saw Sherlock smirk, clearly amused at Irene's word choice. Sherlock had said it once, during one of their cases, and while the fact that Irene had repeated him seemed to _amuse_ the detective, it did nothing but grate on John's nerves. As if sensing this, Irene continued before John got the chance to shoot a rude reply. “I read what happened. In the papers. That's why I'm here.”

 

She seemed to be tiptoeing around the subject—being “delicate”—and John was unsure as to whether he was thankful for it, or whether it frustrated him further.

 

“Yes, well, it happened three years ago. You sure took your time.” John said it easily, but it wasn't something easy to say. It was simple to say that Sherlock's death had happened three years ago, but it didn't _feel_ like three years ago, and John was beginning to wonder if it ever would.   
  
“I was in hiding. There was all sorts of attention focused on you, and everyone else involved in the case. I'm sure you'll agree that my presence would have attracted even more attention. Besides, I was waiting.”

 

“Waiting for what?”

 

“To see what you'd do,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. Irene eyed him for a moment, and while she did so, John's eyes drifted to where he'd seen Sherlock standing only moments before. The man had vanished once again—he wasn't sure what to think of that. Alone with Irene Adler.....

 

“Have I _done_ something?” John finally asked, focusing back on the woman. She was staring at him curiously once more, and the doctor somewhat desired to know what exactly she found so _interesting_ about him.

 

“You haven't done anything,” she stated bluntly a moment later. “Which is why I finally came. I have to say, you're a bit of a disappointment. I would have expected you to be on the case ages ago.”

 

Disappointment. John _hated_ that word, for various reasons, but it always came back to one key reason—he _felt_ like a disappointment, quite often. It had started early in his childhood—his father's treatment of him had not been a pleasant one—and it had seemed to set the idea upon John that he _was_ a disappointment. Perhaps that was part of what had influenced him to join the army—to get something _done—_ to succeed in something. However, it seemed he had failed at that too, the moment he'd been shot and honorably discharged. Moving through life as a disappointment—and of course, it was hard _not_ to feel as such when working beside Sherlock Holmes, a proper genius, while he himself was average at best.

 

“What case?” John finally questioned, attempting to clear his head. Irene stared at him in clear surprise at the question.

 

“Sherlock's case,” she replied simply. John's brow furrowed once more, and he gave a shake of his head.

 

“What do you mean? There _is_ no case. Sherlock—” he paused a moment, to clear his throat and collected himself, “it was a suicide. That's that.” A look of clear frustration washed over Irene's face.

 

“Is that it?” Her voice echoed her frustration.

 

“Well.....I admit I don't know _everything,_ but.....Christ, it's _Sherlock Holmes._ There was no way of understanding the man when he was _alive_ , and there's certainly no hope of understanding him now.”

 

“You're certainly quick to decide that,” she snapped. “Dr. Watson, he was clever— _much_ more clever than you...” her words seemed to drift off, unfinished, because it was wide-known knowledge that Sherlock was more clever than him, but the detective had proven himself to be more clever than Irene Adler as well. “Sherlock wasn't the type to turn to suicide. He was much too full of himself.”

 

“Of course I am,” Sherlock stated, crossing his arms and looking at John almost challengingly. John stared back at the detective silently, and he was vaguely aware of Irene following his gaze curiously—of course, to find nothing there—before glancing back at him questioningly. Still, John kept his gaze focused on Sherlock as the man continued. “Everyone's an idiot, remember?”

 

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” John murmured, thinking back to something Sherlock had once said. Irene said something, though John didn't register it. It was as if something had snapped—something had _started_. It felt as if his mind had been resting far too long, and for once it was active again—and he briefly understood how Sherlock felt when he'd been without a case far too long, and Lestrade suddenly came swooping through the door.

 

Without a word, John grabbed his cane once more and stood, carefully making his way over to the window of the sitting room closest to the couch, staring out into the dark street. He passed both Irene and Sherlock on the way, and the woman was watching him as if she had no idea what to expect, seeming to wonder if he'd lost it completely, and would start _attacking_ her, or something of the like.

 

“However improbable.....” John repeated to himself in a soft mumble. He sensed Sherlock come up beside him—felt the man's steely eyes on him.

 

“ _Have_ you eliminated the impossible, John?” he challenged. John opened his mouth to respond before quickly closing it. No.....data. Sherlock had always collected data—observations. You couldn't decide _anything_ without information. Things had to be based on concrete facts—not guesses.

 

Turning to face Sherlock, John was surprised to find Irene now in his place, staring back at him silently. Her eyes seemed focused and searching as they glanced over John's face, and after a moment, she gave the smallest of nods, as if she was content. She then turned and opened the small top drawer on the cabinet beside the window, beginning to dig through it.

 

“What are you—”

 

“Just taking back something that belongs to me,” she interrupted with a sly smile, pulling out the mobile phone John had not seen in years—the mobile that hard started it all, with Irene Adler. He'd _wondered_ what Sherlock had done with it. It looked so simple and innocent now—as “innocent” as an inanimate object was capable of. The screen no longer lit up; the battery was surely dead. Old fingerprints covered the black surface, and John could see small scuffs and marks on it.

 

“It's been stripped. There's nothing on it,” John stated, feeling an extreme sense of deja vu—very similar words he'd said to Sherlock when he'd given the detective the phone.

 

“Yes, of course,” Irene replied with a roll of her eyes. Chuckling, she tucked it into the abyss of her blouse—into her bra, John imagined. “Still mine though. There's no sense in _him_ holding onto it— _I'm_ not the one losing my mind over him.” John felt that it wasn't meant in a particularly insulting manner—which was partially what had frustrated John so much when he'd first met her. She rarely seemed to insult, and yet John had found it _so_ easy to hate her.

 

“Jealousy, John—jealousy.” John jumped in surprise as he practically felt Sherlock breathe the words down his neck, yet when he spun around, he found himself in an empty flat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, what do I say about this chapter....there's not too much. Some of these chapters I wrote weeks ago (I'm lazy when I write), so I forget some things that happen in them. Thank god for outlines. Anyways, I've never written anything with Irene before, so I hope I didn't butcher her character.  
> Next chapter is someone you might not expect.


	4. The Indignation of S. Anderson

John was very familiar with the childish “sticks and stones” saying, but that didn't mean he believed it for one second. In fact, the childish chant was almost mocking whenever he happened to overhear someone saying it: “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

 

It was a lie, and the knowledge of how wrong it was only revealed itself over time. The truth was, words had power—the power to do nearly _anything_. He'd learned that more so than ever during his time with Sherlock. You could use words to kill someone—or force them to kill _themselves_. Words didn't go away; as Sherlock had once said, you can't erase an idea—not once it's made a home in your head. 

 

This being the case, Irene Adler's words and been planted very deep into John's mind, and in the few weeks after, they had continued to pick and prod until there was never a moment when he  _wasn't_ thinking about them. His hallucinated Sherlock was being as impossible as ever, and took every opportunity to remind him of Irene's little visit. 

 

“Have you been working it out, John?” He'd question, arching a brow.

 

“Working _what_ out?” John would reply, annoyed to hear the question for what seemed like the millionth time. Sherlock would stare at him, clearly upset and frustrated.

 

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” he would reply. Always the same answer, and always equally as frustrating. No, scratch that. It was increasingly frustrating.

 

A decent amount of time had passed since Irene's visit, at least a month, giving the words and ideas planted into John's mind ample time to develop and get to him. Logic was against him; there was no way someone—even Sherlock Holmes—could survive a fall off of a building as tall as St. Bart's. He'd _seen_ it happen—felt his pulse. But there was that other bit of his mind, which continued to remind him that Sherlock Holmes wasn't just anyone. He was crafty and clever, and never liked sharing the full details of his plans, because that would ruin the magic, in a way.

 

_It's a trick. It's just a magic trick._

 

John sat bolt up in bed, his shirt drenched in a chilling sweat as it so often was when he was jolted from his nightmares. He'd been once again drifting between the realms of sleep and consciousness, reliving Sherlock's death. John glanced around frantically in the darkness.

 

“What did you say?” he questioned, his eyes finally landing on the familiar silhouette near the window. He could see behind Sherlock that it was still dark outside, and upon glancing at his bedside clock, he found that it was only one in the morning. Still plenty of time to sleep, though he doubted he'd be that lucky. John could hear the steady sound of rain outside.

 

“I didn't say anything,” Sherlock replied, turning from the window to face John. The doctor couldn't make out his expression in the darkness, but his voice.....ah, his voice seemed challenging. Shaking his head, John threw aside the covers and stood, the cold wood floor biting into his bare feet.

 

“No, no, you said something....'it's just a magic trick',” John repeated, padding over to the light switch to flick the light on. The light was nearly blinding, and John blinked rapidly as his eyes slowly adjusted. Sherlock remained near the window, unaffected by the sudden light.

 

As much as John hated to admit it, it had become very useful, if not frustrating, to have this hallucination around. He doubted it helped all that much when it came to coping with Sherlock's death—after all, though he was constantly followed by this fictional Sherlock, he was very much aware that _his_ Sherlock—the real one—was still dead, and was little comforted in that fact. But it _was_ very useful. As Sherlock had said, a method even more logical than a mind palace. While it wasn't sane in the least, it was a fantastic way to find those thoughts and ideas, and even realizations, that had become lost way deep in the corners of John's mind. Since this Sherlock was constructed from said thoughts and ideas, it was an extremely constructive way of having a conversation with himself.

 

“And? What of it, John?” Sherlock finally questioned, moving from the window to plop himself comfortably onto John's mess of a bed. The blankets had become tangled in what looked like a nest, and Sherlock squirmed a bit before he finally seemed to get comfortable.

 

“Everything you did and said had a meaning....” And John was absolutely positive of that. That's what made Sherlock Holmes so extraordinary. Many of the things he did seemed meaningless and eccentric—half the time one might not have even noticed the little observations he made or actions he pulled, but they all played a very important role in whatever case he was working on. _Everything_ was important.

 

As impossible as it seemed, the idea that perhaps Sherlock _was_ alive—that he'd somehow cheated death—was becoming more and more.....well, possible. John furrowed his brow thoughtfully for a moment, before rubbing his eyes tiredly. There had to be something....something that was missing. A clue, a single moment....

 

“What is it....there's _something_...” John's head was beginning to hurt as he forced himself to think back to that day. He'd been standing on the ground, and his heart had been desperately trying to escape his chest before dropping painfully into his stomach. He'd stared up at Sherlock as they'd spoken on the phone—Sherlock had been crying. _Crying_. John had felt as if _he'd_ been the one standing on the edge of the rooftop.

 

“John. Love is a dangerous disadvantage,” Sherlock warned after a moment, staring at the doctor in interest. Shaking his head, the blond quickly glanced at the detective in confusion and frustration at the phrase.

 

“What's that got to do with anything?” he shot, trying not to all but snarl it. A smirk tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

 

“It's to do with _everything_.” Upon receiving a skeptical, blank look from John, Sherlock released a huff of annoyance before standing from the bed. “ _Feelings,_ John— _emotions._ They're clouding your judgment and thought process.”

 

Crossing his arms, John leaned back against his closed bedroom door, jaw clenched in frustration. As much as he wanted to argue (with his _own_ hallucination), Sherlock had always known what he was talking about. Feelings.....emotions.....yes, it was possible to allow them to cloud one's judgment. Was that what he was doing?

 

Was that what _everyone_ had done? After all......everyone connected to the case of Sherlock Holmes—everyone that had investigated it (though there had _hardly_ been an investigation, from what John had heard), had been connected to Sherlock on a more personal level. John had been in jail at the time of the investigation, charged with the assault of the Chief Superintendent. John had missed his best friend's funeral.

 

Quickly shaking his head at the dull twang in his chest, John forced himself to focus once more. Emotions. John hadn't been present at the investigation, and since those who had investigated had all known Sherlock.....well, it was very possible they'd had clouded judgment, he supposed. At least, that would have been Sherlock's theory. That being the case.....was there something missed?

 

“It's no good,” John finally breathed out with a frustrated huff. “Everyone knew you on a personal level, or was at least connected to you somehow.”

 

“Yes, they all had a sort of connection—they were all 'close' to me, so surely they wouldn't have been thinking properly after my sudden death. But...” Sherlock paused, as if to see whether or not John would finish his thought. The blond was impatient.

 

“But _what_?”

 

“But what if there was someone who _wasn't_ close to me?”

 

*

 

“I can't believe we're here,” Sherlock nearly snarled as he stood on the porch beside John, his arms crossed in a clearly annoyed manner.

 

“You're the one that sent me here,” John protested as he banged on the front door.

 

“No, _you're_ the one that sent you here.”

 

The house was a decent one—not entirely posh, but nice compared to the average small flats that were scattered around London. It had a small porch with potted plants that had long since died. It had somewhat of a cottage feel, and John could only imagine how expensive it was, being its own unit when most of London was building upon building crammed packed with flats. There was no yard, it being too close to the street for that, but a black wrought iron fence lined the front of the property, accompanied by a few decorative shrubs. John had been surprised that the gate hadn't creaked ominously when he'd pushed it open.

 

The house had two stories, yet the windows had been completely dark. It was to be expected—it was two in the morning, by now, and the owner had most likely gone to bed long ago, like any normal person who had work the following morning. Luckily cabs in London weren't too difficult to track down, even in the wee hours of the morning.

 

Finally, John heard footsteps approach the other side of the door. The doctor took a step back, hearing the soft clicking of locks before the door cracked open and Anderson peeked out.

 

John almost felt _sorry_ for the man—he looked absolutely exhausted. More so than from merely being awoken at such an hour of the morning. He looked as if he'd been getting about as much sleep as John himself had. His hair was tossed from sleep, or at least the _attempt_ to some rest, and there were soft signs of a five o'clock shadow. There was something more than exhaustion though......John couldn't help but stare at Anderson and think the man looked entirely defeated.

 

“John?” Anderson questioned in disbelief, blinking as if he still wasn't completely awake (he likely wasn't). It was odd to see him in his sleepwear—blue flannel pyjama bottoms, and an old, plain gray T-shirt. John had only ever seen him in his blue crime scene suits, or on rare occasions when at headquarters, an actual suit. “Do you have any idea what _time_ it is?”

 

“Of course I do,” John snapped. Clearly, neither was thrilled to see the other. “Is there a problem? Is _Sally_ here?” At that, Anderson clenched his jaw, sending John a positively wicked look.

 

“No, she's not here. But I _have_ got work in four hours.”

 

“He's not needed. There's no point in him going into work,” Sherlock snorted from behind John, though the comment went ignored.   
  


“It's about Sherlock,” John stated bluntly, staring at Anderson, his gaze not wavering. “Lestrade wouldn't text back.” Bit of a lie, but only a small one—Lestrade _hadn't_ texted him for ages. Anderson looked surprisingly uncomfortable at John's words, and he shifted his weight silently from one foot to the other.

 

“Guilty,” Sherlock stated before releasing a sharp laugh. “He's feeling guilty.” John internally rolled his eyes as he waited for Anderson's reply.

 

In all honestly, he'd been _hoping_ the man would be feeling guilty—that would make things a lot easier. He _had_ considered going to Sally instead, but Anderson was easier to tolerate. That, and he'd had a hunch that the man might have been feeling some guilt. John had noticed, over the many little arguments and childish feuds between Anderson and Sherlock, that while Sally attacked Sherlock openly, calling him “freak” as well as many other things, Anderson never did such. Most of the time, he only attacked if Sherlock dealt a blow. Anderson seemed to have genuinely made an attempt to assist, in many of the cases....he was just simply no match for Sherlock.

 

It seemed that the guilt won over in the end, because with a weary sigh, Anderson opened the door wider, stepping aside regretfully to allow John in.

 

“This ought to be good,” Sherlock muttered, though John simply nodded in thanks as he stepped into the house. After shutting and locking the front door once more, Anderson quietly padded off into the house, John following after until they emerged into a large kitchen. Flicking the light on, Anderson set about making tea—a rather kind gesture, in John's opinion, especially for how uninvited he knew he was at such an hour.

 

Even in the darkness, John had made sure to take in as much as possible as they'd made their way to the kitchen. That, and he'd done his best to hide his limp—he didn't need Anderson knowing that it had come back after Sherlock's death, leaving only one logical assumption. When it came to Anderson's house, despite how lovely it looked on the outside, inside, John had come to find it extremely......empty. Well, it wasn't _entirely_ empty, but it was much more empty than it should have been. The few furniture items seemed lonely and spaced out, and John could make out prints in the carpet where more things had once sat. The house was chilly, and John's voice almost seemed to echo when he spoke.

 

“Is your wife here?” he questioned, feeling suddenly foolish for not taking the possibility into account _before_ he nearly knocked down Anderson's front door. He saw the man tense for a moment before bringing John his cup of tea.

 

“No,” he replied simply, causing John to arch a brow.

 

“She's gone,” Sherlock replied simply, slowly making his way around the kitchen to take in everything he possibly could, as if he'd find something to blackmail Anderson with. “Probably found out about the affair with Sally. No....she was having an affair herself.” Sherlock breathed out a chuckle, though John didn't think it was all that funny.

 

“See Sally much anymore?” John questioned casually, though he was quite curious. Of course, it was obvious that Anderson saw her at work every day, but that certainly wasn't what John was asking. As he waited for an answer, he took a seat on one of the stools at the small island in the middle of the kitchen.

 

“No,” the forensic scientist replied rather shortly, taking a seat across from John with his own mug. “Now what was it you wanted at _two in the morning_?”

 

“Right.” John set his cup onto the tiled island, staring across at the man intently. “I need to see all the evidence from Sherlock's case.” Anderson eyed him suspiciously.

 

“John, that case was closed a long time ago.”  
  


“Well I want it opened again. But in order for that to happen, I need to prove that it _should_ be opened again. I need to see the evidence, Anderson.”

 

“You think we missed something?” Anderson questioned, only to be greeted with a stern look. After a moment, he breathed out a sigh of defeat, and John couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the man. He'd never bothered to take Anderson's home life into account, and while the man wasn't a completely innocent party himself—he _had_ been cheating on his wife—it was clear that he'd still been through a lot. And John knew what it was like to go through a lot. “There wasn't much evidence recovered. Just his phone, and quite a bit of blood from the rooftop.”

 

“Blood?” John questioned, suddenly interested. “Was it Sherlock's?” Anderson gave a half shrug.

 

“We couldn't determine.” John gave Anderson a rather sharp look—a forensics scientist that couldn't identify blood DNA? Anderson held up his hands in defense. “It had been tampered with. Someone had gotten to it before us, and....well, they knew what they were doing. The DNA was too damaged.”

 

“Damaged?” John questioned in disbelief.

 

“Come on John, you're a doctor. You know how fragile DNA can be. There are substances that can destroy it beyond identification.”

 

“Yes, but....someone would have had to work extremely fast.” John's words remained in the air, and it seemed that neither of the two of them had much to add.

 

“Someone knew what they were doing~” Sherlock sang softly from the other side of the kitchen, and John sent him a rather stern look before sighing in defeat, his gaze returning to Anderson.

 

“Well alright. I'd like to at least get a good look at the mobile phone,” he replied.

 

“Doubt you'll get much out of it. It was practically destroyed.”

 

“How do you mean?”  
  
“Crushed. Shattered. In at least a dozen pieces.”

 

Furrowing his brow, John opened his mouth to reply, before—

 

“Anderson, have you got anymore Pepto? My stomach's doing something awful.”

 

John and Anderson both turned to the door of the kitchen, and John blinked in complete shock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never know what to say at the end of the chapters! It was interesting working with Anderson- hopefully I won't get too much hate for it. I've been real lazy about writing recently, so I gotta force myself to get on it! Hope this chapter is alright for all of you!


	5. The Astonishment of Gregory Lestrade

At first John just stared in shock, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He thought it _must_ be another of his hallucinations, but he doubted that his mind, even under the weight of depression and loss, could piece together such an absurd hallucination. Still.....it had to be impossible. Gregory Lestrade could not _really_ be standing in Anderson's kitchen in his pyjamas.

 

But that seemed to be the case, and Lestrade looked just as shocked to see John as the doctor was to see him. The man looked worse for the wear, and John couldn't help but wonder if it had happened over time, or all at once just after Sherlock's death. After all, he hadn't  _seen_ Lestrade in.....hell, he couldn't remember. He was never at crime scenes, and Lestrade simply didn't respond to John's texts or calls. Frustratingly enough, all John could ever get out of Dimmock was that he'd been reassigned to another division. 

 

“Oh,” Lestrade said simply, his eyes wide with surprise before a grin spread across his face. “'Ello, John.”

 

It took a moment for John's mind to start up again. Lestrade's voice had a clear slur to it, and it was quite easy for John to come to the logical conclusion. He'd grown up with an alcoholic father, after all, and was instantly reminded of him by Lestrade. Lestrade looked broken, and possibly more defeated than Anderson. Where Anderson had only hints of five-o-clock shadow that he likely shaved off every morning, Lestrade's face was much more scruffy— clearly he hadn't shaved in days. His hair had grown a bit, and was begging for both a cut and a decent wash. Gregory Lestrade looked distant and exhausted, much like Anderson, but unlike Anderson, he seemed to be in his own little world.

 

John's gaze returned to Anderson, who looked as if someone who realized they'd finally hit rock bottom. He stared back at Lestrade before releasing a sigh of defeat.

 

“In the bathroom cabinet. Above the sink,” he finally replied, and with another grin Lestrade stumbled off down the dark hall to fetch the sought out Pepto Bismol. John instantly turned on Anderson with a stern look.

 

“How drunk is he?” John questioned sharply. Anderson stared back at him wearily.

 

“Right now? Not very.”

 

“How long has he been staying here?”

 

“A _while_.” Anderson sent John a guarded look, clearly not wanting to go into it. John however, arched a brow in interest.

 

“Awful nice of you; taking care of him. Why are you?”

 

“My personal life is hardly your business, is it?” Anderson replied. Sherlock released a loud laugh of amusement, and it was only then that John realized he was still present. It was odd for the detective to stay quiet for so long, and often times it meant that he'd temporarily vanished.

 

“ _Personal_ life?” Sherlock snickered, clearly unable to contain himself. John did his best to not react, though it was rather difficult. “Hm. The man who cheated, and the man who was cheated on. I never would have guessed Lestrade's standards were _that_ low.” 

 

John silently sipped at his tea, allowing things to roll over in his mind for a moment. So Anderson was taking care of Lestrade......John didn't want to assume anything. He'd been in the same situation, in which nearly everyone he came in contact with had some comment about him and Sherlock being a couple.

 

But then again.... _weren't_ they? Not in the typical sense—not _quite_. But Sherlock Holmes did seem to stir something in John that was new and foreign—he couldn't entirely explain. John had never been attracted to men; not in the least. However, Sherlock was....well, just Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock was a man, but John rarely saw him as that, rather, simply a person that he cared a great deal about. It was so confusing, in fact, that John preferred to shove any idea or thought relating to it into a corner. But in reality, to two of them _had_ been in a unique relationship that was all their own. True, there had been nothing physical, but that hadn't made it any less real or intimate.

 

Before Sherlock Holmes, things weren't nearly as confusing. There was just women—there was no need to ponder over sexuality or affectional orientation. That was different now, and John's way of thinking had been forced to change.

 

So now John was curious about Lestrade and Anderson. What kind of bond was forming between the two of them? Was John jumping to conclusions? Was he just one of the many people to make an assumption? Did the two of them just see each other as _people_?

 

John was forced to shove his questions aside as Lestrade reentered the room. From the looks of it, he was for the most part coming down from his alcohol high, and was dealing with the hangover that was left to greet him, hence the Pepto Bismol. John guessed he was likely dehydrated, and he quickly stood to offer Greg his stool before thoughtlessly beginning to dig through Anderson's cupboards in search of a glass. Anderson watched him but made no complaints, and once John found a glass, he filled it with water before setting it in front of Greg.

 

After sending John a rather thankful look, Greg accepted the water, nearly downing the entire glass in one gulp. John remained standing, as there were only two stools in the kitchen, and while Anderson had stood from his once Lestrade entered the room, John was ever polite, and silently refused to take it. The scientist looked quite uncomfortable now that Lestrade had returned, and he clearly was unsure as to what to say, or whether John was going to interrogate him on the nature of their relationship. John was almost tempted to—a bit of payback for all the chaos Anderson had helped cause—but he forced himself not to. Acting immaturely would do very little to get what he'd come for in the first place. Unlike Sherlock, he couldn't _afford_ to act immaturely.

 

“Lestrade, what have you been _doing_ for three years?” John finally questioned, trying to keep from sounding angry.

 

“Shagging Anderson,” Sherlock instantly replied before shivering in disgust. John's nails dug into his palms as a reminder not to respond to Sherlock, however much he wanted to—however _natural_ it seemed. Lestrade arched a brow at John, and for a moment, John thought that he'd become aware of John's imaginary friend, but quickly realized that wasn't possible. Sherlock meanwhile walked up behind Anderson as if to examine the back of the man's neck for any marks or evidence of Anderson's “private life”.

 

“You're looking at it,” Lestrade replied simply with a shrug, causing John to force his gaze from his detective and stare at Greg in surprise.

 

“You've been living here for _three_ _years_?” Again, Anderson looked uncomfortable, but said nothing, though he finally did allow himself to sit once more on the second stool. John leaned against the island.

 

“Give or take,” Lestrade replied simply, pausing to sip at the remainder of his water. “The wife finally left me for good.”

 

“Before or after—” John paused, deciding to rephrase his question, which would have ended rather accusingly involving Lestrade's alcoholism. “Before or after Sherlock's death?” It seemed to hit Lestrade almost physically, and he looked as if he might be ill, either from the hangover or the shock of reality. It seemed _fair_ though—John had lived the three years after Sherlock's death. Hell, he'd _suffered_ for three years, all too aware of reality. Even Anderson had clearly dragged himself along over the past three years. It was difficult to feel that Lestrade had the right to numb himself from reality, however painful it was.

 

“After,” Lestrade finally admitted before breathing a soft sigh. He looked about to continue, but John was impatient.

 

“You haven't been at crime scenes,” he pushed. Lestrade looked at him like a kicked dog, or a deer in the headlights.

 

“After....after Sherlock's case, I got demoted,” he admitted, his eyes focusing onto his nearly empty glass of water, as if it was suddenly interesting. “Of course, we gave Sherlock all kinds of classified information. Most of the blame was mine, obviously.”

 

“Lestrade, I haven't seen you around the Yard at _all_ ,” John protested. Lestrade remained silent, clearly hesitant to answer, causing Anderson to step in.

 

“He was fired not long after,” Anderson stated, though as gently as possible. John blinked in surprise, quickly glancing at Lestrade. He didn't know _why_ he was surprised, exactly—he'd been expecting it. Still, for some reason, it was a shock to hear. It only made sense though. Things were piecing themselves together.

 

“John...” Lestrade breathed out a sigh, “I'm sorry about...all of it. Too little, too late, I know. But I honestly didn't expect anything like that to happen.” John stared at the man—the extremely broken, defeated, sad man—debating what to say. So.....he'd been demoted after Sherlock's death. The whole ordeal had caused him to turn to alcohol, which had quickly become an addiction. Many people were aware that Lestrade's wife had been cheating on him—perhaps the combination of the demotion and alcoholism was the final excuse the woman needed to leave him. Or perhaps he'd been fired first—John was unsure.

 

The doctor glanced from Lestrade to Anderson silently. So Anderson had been taking care of Lestrade ever since; Lestrade clearly wasn't in much of a state to take care of himself. No wonder Anderson looked so exhausted. John felt the slightest bit of respect for the scientist.

 

“Sherlock trusted you,” John announced, finally glancing back at Lestrade. “I know he didn't act like it often, but he did. You were his _friend_ , Lestrade.” Again, Lestrade looked as if he'd been physically attacked. “So now, I need your help.”

 

“Help with what?” Lestrade questioned, somewhat guarded.

 

“I need to see all the evidence from Sherlock's case.” Lestrade stared at John, completely astonished.

 

“You think we missed something?” Lestrade didn't sound angry—that was the thing that was so amazing about Gregory Lestrade. He was rarely angry, or mad—frustrated, yes, but John didn't think he'd ever seen him angry.

 

“I want to make sure you didn't,” John replied simply. Lestrade stared at him suspiciously, without replying, and John sighed and rolled his eyes. “Lestrade, please, help me on this. We've got nothing to lose.”

 

“ _I've_ got a job to lose,” Anderson protested with a grumble.

 

“He's lucky he's kept it _this_ long,” Sherlock replied with a snicker. Lestrade glanced over John as if assessing him, and John waited patiently. When John thought of a good man that bad things happened to, Lestrade was the first person that came to mind. It was hard not to feel bad for him—the man clearly blamed himself much more for Sherlock's death than anyone else did. It was somewhat of a shock, really—the aftermath of Sherlock's death. Sherlock had been certain that he didn't have friends—that John was all there was. Is that what he'd thought when he'd stood on the edge of St. Bart's rooftop? Was he convinced that his death wouldn't affect _anyone_?

 

“Even if I wanted to help, I couldn't.” Lestrade's voice knocked John back into the present, and he stared at the man in confusion. “Come on. Weren't you listening? I don't work for the Yard anymore. I've no clearance or access to any of their evidence or files, or _anything_. I've got just as much access as you do,” he replied, sending John a quite apologetic look. “Anderson's you're only bet.”

 

Not exactly what John wanted to hear. True, he didn't entirely hate Anderson anymore—this visit had made it easier to see the scientist in a more humanistic light. Still, that didn't completely erase his history with Anderson, and John certainly didn't want to depend on him as his “only bet”. The blond turned to face the scientist without a word, simply waiting to see what the man's reply would be. Anderson seemed to go pale, and he quickly stood from his stool.

 

“You want me to smuggle classified evidence out for you?” He hissed, making his way over to the sink to dump the remainder of his tea out. He took a moment to rinse the mug before setting it into the sink to properly wash later. “I'll lose my job.”

 

“Unfortunately, I highly doubt the Yard would take such extreme measures for a first offense,” Sherlock muttered from his corner, crossing his arms unhappily and leaning back against the counter. “A warning or temporary suspension is far more likely.”

 

“Well I wouldn't go that far,” Lestrade replied to Anderson, as if to reiterate Sherlock's unheard statement. “Besides, it's a closed case. It's not as if anyone else is going to go poking around for the evidence in the small bit of time it's out.”

 

Anderson once again looked uncomfortable, and John understood—Anderson did his job to the best of his abilities, and he followed the rules. Christ, John could remember when he'd been like that— _before_ he broke every law solving cases with Sherlock Holmes. Still, it made sense for Anderson to be so incredibly hesitant; for one reason or another, Anderson had elected to stay in the lovely house he'd once shared with his wife, even though it was obviously too large for just himself. But there was Lestrade now....yes, Anderson was supporting the two of them it seemed. Those two facts combined promised an extreme output of money—Anderson had every right to be concerned about his job.

 

“Anderson....” John breathed out a sigh. He wasn't one to beg—he disliked sounding that desperate. He had options, however—he _could_ beg, pointing out how much Sherlock meant to him, and all that rubbish, but unfortunately everyone seemed to already be aware of that, even if John _didn't_ want it. He could appeal to Anderson's guilt, reminding that he was partially responsible, but John wasn't out to make _more_ people feel guilty.... “Please help me make sure this case closes properly. It'd mean a lot.” Simple, but hopefully enough.

 

“Fine,” Anderson responded nearly instantly—so quickly, in fact, that it was frightening. Perhaps trying to keep himself from changing his mind. John stared at him in shock, yet Lestrade simply grinned. Anderson stared at John with a guilty expression. “Yeah, alright. I'll bring whatever there is by your flat tomorrow after work.”

 

*

 

The night had been exhausting, and by the time John found himself saying goodnight—though it should have properly been good morning—the world had already begun to wake up. Stars had vanished as the sky had just begun to lighten, and the streets were no longer empty. People bustled around, bundled up against the morning frost, thankful that they hadn't woken up to snow yet again. Cabs and cars made their way lazily along the streets, yet everything and everyone was still tired; still in the process of waking up. The world remained groggy.

 

John had felt _slightly_ guilty for keeping Anderson up all night—the man surely wouldn't have time to sleep before he had to get ready for work—but not guilty enough to apologize. John _himself_ was exhausted, and his mind refused to process any part of Sherlock's endless banter as they walked away from Anderson's house to catch a cab.

 

Once John had returned to 221B, he felt _far_ more exhausted than he had in a long time. Still, he knew sleep only held nightmares, and he doubted he'd be able to rest much anyways; he was much too anxious about whatever it was Anderson would find and bring to him. This being the case, John simply sat in his armchair near the forgotten fireplace, dozing every now and then, the flat feeling more absent of Sherlock than ever.

 

His leg was not forgiving him anytime soon for his adventure to Anderson's without his cane—after all, Anderson was the last person John wanted knowing that his limp had returned as bad as it had. Even with this......somewhat understanding, tolerable Anderson, John was still quite guarded as to how much Sherlock's death had had an effect on him—as to how much Sherlock _really_ meant to him.

 

John had been almost asleep when he'd heard a soft sound nearby that sent him stirring quite quickly.

 

“You have a visitor,” Sherlock sneered, though his voice was muffled as John worked his way to complete consciousness. Just as he blinked himself awake, his eyes focusing, he heard Mrs. Hudson's familiar lighthearted “hoo hoo” as she knocked on the door before entering.

 

“Afternoon, John dear,” she greeted with her fond smile. “You've got a man here to see you from the Yard. Haven't seen this one before.” Her voice sounded slightly concerned, as she had gotten quite familiar with the officers most frequently sent to fetch John should a case come up. Of course, Anderson had been to 221B before, whenever Lestrade had decided a surprise “drugs bust” was necessary, but Mrs. Hudson often tried to avoid their flat when those took place—so many people bustling around seemed to be a lot for her.

 

“Yeah, thanks,” John mumbled before yawning, his hand absentmindedly rubbing his thigh. “Send him up would you?” He sent Mrs. Hudson an exhausted smile, though made no move to get up.

 

“Yes, of course, dear,” she replied, making sure to send John a concerned look, which made John feel even more guilty. He knew he worried her too much. “You look as if you haven't slept in weeks. Perhaps you ought to get some decent pain medication for that leg of yours. Or I'll bring you some of my herbal soothers later, shall I?” And with that, she'd disappeared downstairs once more before John was able to respond, mumbling something about _not_ being John's housekeeper.

 

Not but a minute later, she returned, only briefly, with Anderson, who thanked her quite politely and apologized for bothering her until she disappeared downstairs once more to tend to whatever it was she was baking at the moment—apple pie was John's best guess, from the scent that had drifted its way into the flat.

 

Again John was momentarily shocked to see Anderson out of his blue forensic suit. He work a nice pair of black dress slacks that clearly went with a suit, the rest of which was hidden under a gray peacoat. He certainly looked as tired as John had expected, if not more, and that could have been the cause of his clearly foul mood, or perhaps it was something else, such as an unpleasant day at work. Though now that John thought about it, it seemed a rarity to find Anderson in a _good_ mood, so perhaps a foul one should have been expected.

 

“Afternoon,” John greeted, regardless, standing only to nearly fall over as pain shot through his leg. He quickly gripped at the back of his chair to steady himself, hoping the stumble hadn't been too obvious. “Tea?”  
  


“No thanks,” Anderson muttered before clearly suppressing a yawn. “I want to make this as quick as possible. I've got shopping to do.”

 

“Ah, how _domestic_ ,” Sherlock snickered, having appeared in his chair opposite to John's.

 

John desperately wanted to shut Sherlock up, though instead he sent a forced smile at Anderson and replied, “Right. Go ahead and have a seat then.” The doctor motioned to Sherlock's chair, receiving a very hateful look from the detective—if looks could kill. Sherlock quickly shuffled out of the chair, having to do an awkward dance around it to get out of the way, just in time for Anderson to stiffly sink down into it. Reaching into his coat, the scientist pulled out one of the familiar evidence bags, which contained a very mangled mobile phone.

 

“Here it is,” he stated simply, offering it over to John. “That's all we found on the scene, other than the blood, which I even tried testing again today on my break with the same results.”

 

“This is all you found? The only evidence in the entire case?” John questioned skeptically, taking the bag and staring at the phone.

 

“Yes, unfortunately. All we found on the scene. I've got a copy of the report write up as well, though I hardly think you'll find anything useful in that.”

 

“Just leave it there,” John replied simply, motioning to the coffee table, though his eyes didn't wander once from the destroyed phone. Anderson tossed a file onto the table before glancing back at John. “Did you check for fingerprints?”

 

“Of course,” Anderson replied, seemingly offended. “But it's pretty destroyed. There wasn't much of a surface to dust for. A lot of the prints were smeared, or too unrecognizable.” John breathed out a frustrated sigh—this was not what he'd expected. Not what he'd wanted to hear. There was so little information and data..... Sherlock had always needed data.

 

“John, you have data,” Sherlock stated, causing John to quickly flick and stare at the detective, who'd flopped himself onto the sofa. Anderson blinked in confusion, following John's gaze, though of course finding nothing. Sherlock simply smirked, staring back at John challengingly. “You have all the data you need.”

 

John didn't understand—it was all there. Sherlock _said_ it was all there—he _knew_ it was all there, but to John, there was nothing. John glanced back down the mobile, turning the bag over in his hands.

 

“Could you get into the memory?” he mumbled absentmindedly in Anderson's direction.

 

“Surprisingly yes, but there was nothing worthwhile there. Just phone numbers, a few useless texts.”

 

Leaning back in his chair, John closed his eyes. He had to go back....force himself to go back to that day, yet again. They'd been talking on the phone, and John had been staring up at him. The phone...... _Goodbye, John_. He'd tossed it aside....

 

John's eyes snapped open, staring down at the mobile in disbelief.

 

“He threw it aside....” John stated, his voice revealing his shock. Anderson furrowed his brow in question.

 

“He what?”

 

_But that's—that's the phone, the pink phone._

 

_What, from the Study in Pink?_

 

_Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like..._

 

“This isn't his phone,” John finally stated, glancing at Anderson once more. Anderson looked just as shocked as John had a moment ago, and slightly doubtful.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It's only made to look like his. Before he.....when he was on the rooftop, we had a conversation, and then he tossed his phone to the side, onto the _rooftop_. It could have only fallen a few feet—there's no way it could have gotten this damaged. This phone is made to _look_ like his.”

 

“But that's.....that means—”

 

“There's something on Sherlock's phone someone doesn't want us to see.”

 

Anderson sat back in Sherlock's chair, trying to take everything in.

 

“But we got to the scene quite quickly after it was reported. For someone to be able to get onto the rooftop and not _only_ tamper with the blood, but replace the phone and vanish before we arrived.....” Anderson's voice trailed off, and John breathed out a sigh, this time, of relief.

 

“It was someone who knew what they were doing, and someone close by.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I apologize for the somewhat lengthy (in comparison) wait for this chapter. I've been in a very unpleasant mental place this week, dealing with life. Hopefully this chapter will make up for it. I'm going to try to get back on writing soon, but my brain just doesn't want to work. Still, thanks everyone for sticking with it and reading!


	6. The Intrigues of Jim Moriarty

Christmas had come and gone, the decoy mobile remaining in John's possession all the while. He'd done little with it, despite the itching feeling in his mind that he nearly _had_ it—that he was close to something. John had done minimum celebration for the holidays, though he'd bought something small for Mrs. Hudson, as always. Harry had phoned on Christmas Eve, and John had made sure to go out of his way to _not_ answer, not entirely in the mood for senseless ramblings that were the result of too much rum mixed with eggnog. 

 

John heard from Anderson every now and then, mostly just in the form of frustrated urges in attempt to get him to return the mobile. Nothing had come of it—Anderson still had his job, and nobody at the Yard had noticed the mobile's absence. John continued to hear from Lestrade as little as before, but Anderson would sometimes reassure him that the man was getting along.

 

John continued his life in somewhat of a zombie-like state, as usual, though his mind was working more than ever, desperately searching through every thought, fact, memory, and quote he could remember in relation to Sherlock's case. Unfortunately with the sudden brain flair, Sherlock was talking more than  _ever_ , which at times made everything all the more frustrating. John had had the mobile for weeks, yet he was still in the same spot he had been, not having moved an inch closer to the truth. 

 

The weather continued to be foul, going through an extremely cold, damp cycle—snow would cover the city for a number of days before melting down to an unpleasant gray sludge, until rain would finally wash it all away for a day or two, only to turn to snow and restart the cycle. It meant more sick people than ever at the surgery, and John was forced to focus much more on his work because of it. While he would have rejoiced a mere month or two ago at the hours of distraction the surgery had to offer, now he would have much rather spent the time working on the case at hand.

 

Christmas decorations lingered around the flat as New Years rolled near, and while John felt the need to take them down, he couldn't find the motivation to do so. He hadn't even wanted to bother with them in the first place, but Mrs. Hudson had insisted, and as it had seemed to bring _her_ joy, John had felt no need to protest. Colorful lights framed the fireplace, and the flat was left with the pleasant scent of pine from the small decorated tree near the window.

 

John had done little on Christmas day and evening—it didn't seem any different than any other day. Still, just this once he'd bother to start a fire in the neglected fireplace, and sat in front of it for hours, simply watching the flames lick and grab at the air. It was odd thinking back to the last Christmas Eve he'd spent with Sherlock, in the same flat, but so much more cheerful, despite the detective's grumblings. They'd had friends over and had snacks and drinks, and Sherlock had played the violin absentmindedly in a lazy sort of concert. Of course, that evening had been ruined when Sherlock had run off to the morgue to identify Irene Adler's corpse—or its stand in, rather.

 

It had been a decent night, really, though Sherlock's thoughtless deductions had ended up hurting Molly's feelings. Still, it had been a warm pleasant night in the flat. This Christmas had simply been cold, and before John knew it, he'd spent the entire night watching the dying fire, and Christmas was over.

 

New Years Eve quickly approached, and while John felt guilty to spend another holiday staring off into the fireplace, there wasn't all that much he could  _think_ of to do. Had he been spending the evening with Sherlock—the  _ real _ Sherlock—he would have probably been forced into working on a case, just like any other evening. He would have peeked out of the window every now and then to catch glimpse of the countless fireworks being set off, and Sherlock would roll his eyes and comment on the utter ridiculousness of making such a big fuss over the start of a new year.  _ Just another day _ , he would say. Or perhaps John would have gone to the pub with Lestrade, and some other people from the Yard. He could do neither, now. While Lestrade clearly wasn't anywhere near getting over his alcoholism, John wasn't about to enable the man.

 

But the idea of starting a new year just as empty and lonely as the previous one was so unappealing that despite his better judgment—as well as his Sherlock's endless scolding and attempts at dissuasion—John had stopped at Tesco on the way home from work and picked up a generously sized bottle of whiskey.

 

“John, you usually stick to beer when you bother drinking alcohol at all,” Sherlock stated unhappily from his chair as John sat opposite to him, finishing what was his third or fourth drink.

 

“I  _ am _ drinking beer,” John replied, his voice slurring shamefully. “It's just got whiskey mixed into it.” Sherlock scowled at him, though his image wavered, and John was unsure if his own vision was blurring, or if his hallucination was failing as a result of his intoxicated mind. Sherlock continued to voice his disapproval as John forced himself up and stumbled his way over to the sofa, only to plop himself onto it and begin pouring another drink. Not only did the alcohol numb his mind, but it seemed to do wonders for his leg as well.

 

There were many times that John had had to try very hard to avoid alcohol as an escape, whether it be from physical pain or emotional stress. Rarely did he allow himself to give in, but now as the dizzy haze took over his mind, causing the ache in his leg to numb, he felt a sickening understanding as to why Harry, and Lestrade, and so many other people found comfort in the substances that provided such effects.

 

Still, his stomach churned in disapproval, and he forced himself to roll onto his side, the logical remainder of his mind reminding him that he was at risk of choking should he vomit later. Sherlock's muffled voice continued to ramble, though it became more muffled over time as John began to doze, and the fireworks of celebration in the distance faded and morphed into gunshots.

 

*

 

It had been a long time since the nightmares of war had greeted him. Blood—it was a bloody mess, and even though he was meant to be merely an army doctor, he was left to dodge the bullets just as much as everyone else at times. That's what had kept him going though—it was the thrill he constantly sought. The adrenaline rush.

 

Guns went off around him, and he was unable to determine whether they were those of the enemy or ally. The dust would choke and blind him, his ears already deafened by the guns and explosions, and he would be left desperately scrambling through the haze, hoping to get himself out alive, while at the same time searching for anyone injured who needed to be dragged out of further threat.

 

There were screams—so many screams he was certain he was in Hell, and they seemed to be the only thing to make it through the temporary deafness, much to his frustration. His heart would struggle to escape his chest, leaping fitfully, pounding desperately, and good God he  _ loved _ it. 

 

There was a voice barking orders at him.....he couldn't make it out, and it changed slowly as it continued to speak. At first, it gave quick, sharp demands, before slowing and growing deeper, though still remaining unclear until finally.....

 

_I want you to tell Lestrade...._

 

… _..I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson...._

 

… _.............and Molly._

 

The battlefield vanished as the voice became Sherlock's, and once again, John stood staring up at the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. His heart started all over again, although this time, it wasn't fantastic—it was dreadful.  _ This _ wasn't the thrill he craved, though it was what he would one day face in result of that same thrill.

 

He heard Sherlock's voice in his mobile, though it seemed distant, and his mind refused to connect it with the man standing at the edge of the roof. His own mouth opened to respond, and he was sure something came out, but he couldn't  _ feel _ his own voice leaving his dry, sandy throat. The agony of the situation caused everything to feel slurred and slow. 

 

John finally felt Sherlock's name whisper past his lips.

 

Sherlock....

 

Even from the distance, he could see the detective toss aside the mobile, and there was a painfully prolonged second before Sherlock fell.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Once again, the scene became blurred as it changed, the setting exploding into wisps of inky ghosts before reforming into something entirely new.

 

Darkness surrounded him, and he was once again blinded, completely lost until something solid reappeared in his hands. Sheets, tangled in his grip. And..... _ someone _ .....someone very solid. 

 

Sweat. They were drenched in it, and John leaned down to press his lips between the man's shoulder blades. It was hot, and messy, and rough, and  _ Christ _ , John loved it. This was no nightmare—it as John's pure desire that he'd shoved away long ago—his dirty little secret of which he had denied.

 

John's hips moved quickly, slowing every now and then to tease as he thrust into the detective. At times, John swore he could see Sherlock beneath him, face buried into the pillows as sounds of pure pleasure were forced from his lungs, while at others the blackness seemed to consume the two of them, and John's hands would then blindly explore, mapping out Sherlock's body beneath him, exploring up the arch of his back before his fingers would finally tangle into damp curls and shove the man's face into the mattress.

 

_ This _ was how he'd wanted Sherlock—his, in every aspect. It was a selfish and impossible desire—a foolish craving—yet time had proven that it would not vanish. His fingers dug possessively into Sherlock's hips, and he leaned down to nip roughly at the back of the man's neck.

 

“Well, this is a turn up, isn't it, John?”

 

John sat bolt up as the dream shifted, and he was no longer inside Sherlock, but beside him. The detective dozed peacefully, clearly exhausted after their activities. John could see once more, despite the endless darkness that seemed to stretch out around them. The two of them remained nude in the bed, sheets crumbled forgotten at their feet.

 

At the foot of the bed stood Jim Moriarty. His eyes were as dead and mocking as ever, a sickeningly knowing smirk on his lips. His sudden appearance made John shiver and swear, and he quickly grabbed at the sheet to cover himself, feeling all too vulnerable. The criminal tugged at the sleeve of the suit he wore, eying it but hardly seeing it before glancing back at John.

 

“Bet you never saw this coming.”

 

“Why the hell are you here?” John growled angrily, glaring at the man. Jim laughed softly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

 

“What, in your head?” His eyes gleamed knowingly as he began to slowly make his way around the side of the bed, inching closer to Sherlock. “Is it really that surprising?” Clenching his jaw, John shifted closer to Sherlock, who continued to doze obliviously, his face relaxed and peaceful. “You've already got your little imaginary detective. Hardly unbelievable that you have me to go along with him.”

 

“He's different,” John protested.

 

“Different?” Jim laughed, pausing beside Sherlock. “ _ Special _ ?” The criminal reached down to tug at one of Sherlock's curls, and John had to fight the urge to tackle him. “Doctor Watson, you've already hallucinated up your dear old detective. What's stopping you from going farther?” 

 

“I have no reason to—“

 

“Oh?” Jim interrupted, arching a brow challengingly. “Who's to say you haven't  _ already _ thought up someone else?” His smirk returned, sliding across his lips. “Are you sure you know the difference between fantasy and reality?” John's face became extremely troubled, causing Jim to grin even further. “All those things running around in your head, Johnny-boy. Which of them are real?”

 

At that, an odd feeling overcame John, and he slowly drug his gaze away from the madman, staring off into the endless darkness. It wasn't possible...... True, John was well aware that his mind had taken a rather interesting turn; that he was balancing on a very thin line between sane and...something else. But his Sherlock hallucination...it made _sense_. There was a reason behind it. An unfortunate combination of grief, depression, and not being able to handle either very well. But he had no reason to hallucinate anyone else. Lestrade....well, he was still alive, and he certainly had no desire to run across Irene Adler ever again. Still....

 

Doubt began to itch at John. He'd been  _sure_ that Irene Adler was dead—it wasn't that simple to fake one's death, especially twice, and Mycroft had been so absolutely certain. What was reality?

 

John slowly glanced back at Moriarty, who had his gaze fixed on the dozing Sherlock in a predatory manner, though the lifeless brown eyes instantly flicked to focus on John. John had had no idea what had become of the man....the last time he'd seen him had been in Kitty Riley's apartment. On the rooftop, Sherlock had stated that the rumors and newspapers and  _lies_ were true—that he'd created Moriarty. John wasn't that foolish—he was no genius, but he absolutely refused to believe that.

 

Still....what had happened to the consulting criminal?

 

As Jim continued to fiddle with Sherlock's curls, the dozing man's calm face slowly became more agitated. The criminal snickered, finally pulling away to continue his way around the bed.

 

“You should be happy though, Doctor Watson,” he nearly sang, folding his hands behind his back. “You finally got what you wanted.”

 

“What's that, then?”

 

“A nice rough shag with the good detective.” John's heart skipped a beat, and Jim's eyes narrowed in interest as he neared John's side of the bed.

 

“That's not true,” John muttered, once again looking away from the criminal.

 

“Isn't it?” Jim questioned in mock surprise, raising his eyebrows. “You've clearly got an interesting type.....” The criminal paused to hum before chuckling, smiling only mildly for once, which seemed just as threatening as a smirk. “Though Sherlock Holmes and I are the same time.”

 

“He's nothing like you.”

 

“Sure he is!” Jim snapped, though the next moment he'd calmed once more, his shoulders relaxing. “He is, but he's boring and _weak_. That's why _you're_ his type.” Jim paused to consider for a moment before chuckling. “I suppose I could see it. I like your type too—ever the loyal pet. You interest me. It's a shame you didn't work for _me_.”

 

“You mean it's a shame you didn't get the chance to _use_ me,” John snapped in reply. “That's the difference between you and him. You have pets that you use and then toss away—Sherlock has _friends_ that care about him.”

 

For a moment Jim looked shocked, and he simply stared at John as if he were speechless. He took a step closer to John's side of the bed, staring down at the doctor coolly before erupting into laughter.

 

“That's what I _like_ about you, Johnny-boy! You think he's such a good person!” He suddenly lashed out, grabbing John's chin roughly in his grip, forcing the blond to stare up into his gaze. “You think _you're_ a good person too—but you just aren't, Doctor Watson. You're cold, and hateful, and cruel, just like the rest of us.” The smirk returned, and Jim leaned closer—far too close for comfort—causing John to tense. His natural instinct was to pull away, but there was a stubborn side of him forcing him to hold his ground. Slowly, Jim's thumb stroked along John's cheek, causing a shiver of disgust to shoot up his spine. “You're losing it, John, and I'm enjoying watching—I really am.”

 

Closer and closer the criminal leaned, and John could feel breath tickle his face. He was certain that a kiss was unavoidable, and the idea churned his stomach. However.....

 

“I'm going to love it when you snap completely.” The words were but a cold whisper that tickled his ear. John squirmed, moving either to shove Jim away, or protest what he was saying, only to be shocked that the criminal had vanished, as had the bed and Sherlock, leaving John in the darkness with a lingering whisper from the criminal—

 

_Molly Hooper._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuug sorry guys. I really am the worst with this for making you wait so long. I've been lazy and out of it recently. I'll try to be better for you guys! Quickly losing confidence in my writing abilities.


	7. The Wavering of Molly Hooper

“Molly Hooper, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock practically chanted. The hallucination had reclined himself on the sofa, right leg bent at the knee and resting against the left knee. His foot bounced to-and-fro each time the name was said. His eyes were focused up on the ceiling, clearly bored, though they slowly drifted to the smiley face smirking down at him from the wall.

 

Just over a week had passed since John's nightmare—if it could be classified as such—though John had done very little to progress the case. No doubt Sherlock Holmes would have sprung up at the most minor lead on a case, and generally John wouldn't be one to refuse, but John was...hesitant. Dreams weren't exactly a lead. The real Sherlock would have pointed out that dreams were simply science—chemicals in the brain. Having gone to medical school, John was aware of this.

 

But oddly enough, his hallucination never pointed this out. It was one of the few times he'd done what the real Sherlock wouldn't have, and John wondered if that was the result of his own mind. Upon realizing this, he'd swear at himself— _obviously_ it was the result of his own mind. It was _his_ hallucination.

 

Still, there were multiple times each day when Sherlock would pause in whatever he was doing and turn to John to question, “have you been to see Molly Hooper yet?” This would always baffle the doctor.

 

“If I had been, you'd be the first to know,” he'd snap in reply—or something equally short. Sherlock would eye him for a moment before releasing an exasperated sigh and return to whatever it was he'd been doing. John never questioned why it was so important that he go see the woman, knowing that while the answer would be coming from his own mind, his hallucination would make sure to phrase it as the real Sherlock would—sarcastic and rude.

 

Part of John felt that the sudden urge to go see Molly was completely random, and not connected to Sherlock's case whatsoever. After all, any prompting to go see her had come entirely from himself. Both his Sherlock hallucination, as well as the Jim Moriarty in his dreams, were products of his own mind. There was no other explanation for it—no mystifying phenomenon. Still....it  _had_ rather come out of nowhere. Molly Hooper passed over John's mind every now and then, but he didn't think of her often, nor did he dwell on her. So to suddenly have his mind so desperately prompting him to go see her seemed......well, a bit more than a coincidence. 

 

“Why do you want me to go see Molly so badly?” John finally tried, defeated, sinking down into his own armchair in front of the fireplace. He was rather exhausted from his day at the surgery, and was honestly looking forward to an uneventful evening. The following day would be Friday—one more day before his weekend, and he couldn't have been more ready for it. Sherlock shifted on the couch so that he could get a good look at John.

 

“Well you've suddenly been seeing all these people you haven't seen since my death,” he pointed out with a grin. “Wouldn't it make sense to see her as well?” John gave a brief shake of his head.

 

“No, there's more to it,” he protested with a grumble.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed simply, pulling a huff of annoyance from John.

 

“Well if you know that, then why don't you _tell_ me?” Sherlock stared at the blond, considering for a few painfully silent moments, before finally sitting up and turning to face John properly.

 

“John, think about the evidence you have in this case.” It was odd to hear Sherlock so casually referring to his _own_ case, but John was very much aware that it was something the real Sherlock would do— look at every case objectively.

 

“Just the phone,” John replied in confusion.

 

“And?”

 

“And.....I don't know. Just the phone.” Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock shook his head.

 

“Look at it from the other end of things, then. What is it you're _lacking_ at the crime scene?” John groaned and massaged his temples, wishing the man would just _tell_ him, but knowing very well that this was his process of working up to the solution. Lacking.....what was he lacking.....

 

“DNA,” John finally exclaimed, the answer hitting him suddenly after what seemed an eternity of silence. A smile slid across Sherlock's lips.

 

“Very good, John. Yes, the blood on the roof _would_ have been brilliant evidence, had it not been tampered with. However, the fact that it _had_ been tampered with makes it just as useful to us.” 

 

“Does it?” John questioned, clearly frustrated.

 

“John, _think_ for once, would you!” Sherlock leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms. “Who was up on that roof? Who's blood was it? Not _mine_. Couldn't have been. So whose was it, and how did they vanish so quickly? Someone knew what they were doing to be able to tamper with that DNA.”

 

“Someone......who knew their science,” John slowly stated, the gears in his mind turning. Sherlock nodded in agreement, clearly relieved that the doctor was catching on.

 

“Someone who knew their science—someone aware of what was happening. Someone _close by._ ” 

 

“You're saying I really _should_ go see Molly Hooper,” John finally stated after a good bit of silence, releasing a tired sigh.

 

“I've _been_ saying that,” Sherlock huffed.

 

It served John right, for not listening to his own intuition.

 

*

 

The process of entering St. Bart's was an operation in itself. John hadn't thought twice when he'd grabbed his coat and ran downstairs, out into the rain to hail a cab. However, it wasn't until he was well on his way to the hospital that his stomach began to churn as the anxiety kicked in.

 

John had avoided St. Bart's since Sherlock's death. He'd actively avoided it, going out of his way, on long detours so that he wouldn't have to see it. It was as if the building itself had become his greatest fear, which he had vowed never to face. This wasn't the good kind of fear—not the fear on the battlefield that John's body yearned for, no; this was the bad kind of fear that made one dizzy and nauseous.

 

As the cab pulled up across the street from the hospital, John felt his stomach drop, and he wordlessly paid the cabby the fair before sliding out of the car. He clutched his cane tightly, as if it would give him as much mental support as it did physical. The near-ancient building was lovely, and John could remember a time when his eyes had lit up in excitement every time they caught site of it, in the foolish naivety of his younger days when he was only just studying to be a doctor.

 

Joy had turned to dread, yet time continued on, and the hospital remained as it ever had, its bricks never crumbling beneath the countless lives lost there. John fidgeted his hands a bit as he stared at it, feeling rather sick at the idea of entering it for what he realized was the first time since Sherlock's death. Finally with a deep breath, he slowly began his journey across the street and into the hospital.

 

The hospital itself seemed particularly busy that day, however as John made his way downstairs the people thinned out until he was the only one walking in the hall that led to the morgue. Of course, people avoided the morgue like the plague, which had actually been quite useful, for it had always been the only location of the hospital Sherlock had been interested in.

 

His mind returning to Sherlock caused the army doctor to pause in the dimly-lit hallway, glancing around only to find himself alone. Sherlock had recently seemed to be appearing less frequently, and John didn't know whether to take that a sign that he was growing closer to discovering the truth, or merely another stage of coping with Sherlock's death—he certainly didn't _feel_ as if he was coping or moving on.

 

Unlike other hospitals John had been in, St. Bart's seemed to have a non-existent morgue staff. In fact, John had only ever seen Molly, and he'd wondered more than once what the hospital did on the days where she couldn't make it in.

 

John paused outside the door he knew as the morgue—though it was clearly labeled as such for the people who didn't frequent it as much as Sherlock Holmes and his trusty sidekick—and knocked after considering it a moment. Sherlock Holmes would have just burst on it, probably scaring the living daylights out of the poor woman, and there was a time when John very well might have done the same (though not quite as enthusiastically), but it had in fact been ages since John had spoken to Molly, so he thought it wise to knock on the off chance that they _had_ hired additional staff.

 

There came no reply, and after a pause, John pushed through the door, nearly running right into Molly. She released a soft cry of surprise, quickly holding her hands into the air to avoid further contact with John. With a quick glance, he could see this was merely because she was in the middle of a autopsy, and while John tried not to focus on the dissected man laying on the autopsy table nearby, Molly's bloody gloves were a reminder that it was ever present. The autopsy room was always nearly blindingly bright, what with how white and sterile it was, and the unpleasant smell of chemicals hung in the air.

 

“O-Oh! John!” Molly nearly choked out, clearly very shocked to see the man. She blinked rapidly at him for a moment as if she expected him to vanish into thin air, and when he didn't, her eyes widened guiltily. “I didn't get blood on you, did I?” John quickly checked himself before giving a brief shake of his head.

 

“Not this time,” he replied, forcing a chuckle. Molly sent a weak smile at him before stripping off her medical gloves and tossing them in the hazardous waste bin. She then pushed through the morgue doors into the hallway John had just come from, clearly expecting the man to follow. He made his way after her as quickly as possible, though when Molly noticed the cane, she slowed her pace a bit, causing John's stomach to churn unpleasantly. He couldn't stand when people did that.

 

The two of them made their way silently up the concrete stairs and to the lab Molly worked in when she wasn't doing an autopsy—where John had met Sherlock Holmes for the first time. He paused in the doorway, staring into the lab silently.

 

There sat Sherlock, looking just as he had the first day they'd met. His curls fell delicately about his head as he stared intently into the microscope, refusing to be distracted. The detective sat on the stool he always did, taking no notice to the fact that he was nearly blocking the pathway. Molly stared at Sherlock before slowly glancing to John.

 

“John? Are you alright?” she questioned softly—gently. Always gentle. Molly was one of the sweetest people John had ever met—the type of person you heard about in stories, but that couldn't _really_ exist, because good people like that were too good to be true; good people like that were twisted and corrupted by society until they were anything but good.

 

John could see how she could easily be considered cute or adorable, though he'd never had any romantic or sexual attraction to her. She was such a mother that it almost seemed wrong to even consider having such feelings for her. There was always care and concern in her eyes, and it often made John wonder why she worked in the morgue when she so obviously had a desire to take care for and help people.

 

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope, his eyes instantly focusing on John, and the familiar smirk slid across the man's lips. “Yes, John. _Are_ you alright?”

 

Admittedly, John's heart had skipped a beat, forcing his eyes from his hallucination, and he began to calm once more. “Yeah.....I'm fine....”

 

“If you say so,” Molly replied, eying John suspiciously. “So what are you doing here, then?” She questioned before quickly adding, “Not that I'm unhappy to see you! It's been a while.....I was a bit worried. It's just a surprise to see you.”

 

“Yeah....should have sent a text or something. Wasn't exactly thinking straight,” John replied in apology. Smiling, Molly shook her head in dismissal as she leaned back against one of the cluttered counters.

 

“You know me. Never too swamped with work.” That seemed to be the case—Molly never seemed too overwhelmed with work, and she always had time to assist Sherlock, or anyone who merely needed a friendly ear, but still, she seemed to spend a significant time at the morgue, and John wondered if she desired so badly to keep herself occupied. He supposed the feeling wasn't exactly foreign to him, though it was such a shame, what with how sweet Molly was, and how much she did for others; she deserved to be out living life, not merely tolerating it.

 

“Right....” John fell silent, struggling to decide on a delicate way to bring up the topic. After not talking to Molly for nearly three years, give or take a few texts or e-mails, it seemed rather cruel to suddenly show up merely to talk about Sherlock Holmes, and it was in that thought that John somewhat understood why Molly was so desperate to stay distracted—everyone used her, in one way or another.

 

Molly stared at him, cocking her head curiously as she did so, as if trying to read his mind, though remaining ever patient all the while. “You're here about Sherlock?”

 

The question came out of silence and somewhat shocked John, though it shouldn't have, because why _else_ would he be there? It was a relief that Molly had figured it out on her own, though it made him feel guilty all the same because she'd already seemed to have known that it would be the only reason for John to visit. John wordlessly nodded, his eyes once again wandering over to Sherlock who had returned to whatever it was he'd been observing in the microscope.

 

“I'm trying to figure out what really happened,” he finally explained, leaving out his hope of Sherlock still being alive. He'd learned from Sherlock not to say too much when it wasn't necessary.

 

“He's dead, John.” The words were out of the ordinary for Molly Hooper, in that they were harsh and short, and very dismissive. John didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that much out.

 

“Then I want to at least clear his name,” the doctor replied quickly, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “He deserves that much, I think, despite what a complete arse he was. I know for a fact that he was no fake, and I think you do too.”

 

Molly seemed to soften at the realization of how desperate John really was (even though he tried to hide it). This wasn't a journalist or fan coming around snooping, having discovered Molly by coincidence and hoping to get any information about Sherlock out of her. He was just John—a man entirely shattered in result of Sherlock's death. Sherlock Holmes, the most important person in John's life; even Molly could see that. He didn't want the story, or the truth behind the fake genius; he simply wanted the _truth_.

 

“Alright,” she finally sighed, her voice softening once more. She fiddled silently for a moment with the sleeve of her lab coat. “But what makes you think I can help?”

 

“Because I think you know more than you've let on.” John's words were as gentle as they could possibly be, not wanting to sound accusatory, but still they caused Molly to look up at him in shock, her eyes wide. Deer in the headlights, John thought.

 

“W-what makes you think that?”

 

“Well for one, this,” John stated, pulling out the bagged mobile phone. He handed it over to Molly, and she silently stared at it through the clear bag, though she didn't really seem to see it. Her face was expressionless. “I think you've seen it before. In fact, I think you're the one that replaced it with Sherlock's _real_ mobile.”

 

“Why would I do that?” Molly questioned quickly, offering the mobile back to John.

 

“That's what I want you to tell me, Molly,” John replied, taking the mobile from her. “The blood on the rooftop was completely useless to the investigation because the DNA had been practically destroyed. Whoever did that had to have some kind of education in the medical field. They also had to have been very close by in order to get to the scene of the crime, tamper with the blood and replace the mobile, and disappear completely before the police arrived.”

 

Molly looked extremely pale, and at the fear she might faint at any moment John grabbed a nearby stool and helped her down into it. “I'm not accusing you of anything,” he insisted, staring at her honestly. “I just want to figure this all out. If.....if Sherlock needed help in any way during his last hours, it _had_ to have been from you.”

 

“Why me?” She questioned softly, struggling to find her voice. John could see that he'd worked it out quite nicely, and that Molly's walls were about to crumble.

 

“Because everyone else was closely involved with him—it would have been too suspicious, and _obvious_. And....well, you would have gone unnoticed.” John felt rather cruel saying it, but it was a vital fact.   
  
“You mean I'm invisible,” Molly replied with a rather sharp laugh before quickly rubbing her eyes. Guilt overwhelmed John at the fact that head made Molly cry—he was sure that Satan himself would feel guilt for doing such a thing. The doctor opened his mouth, though Molly shook her head, brushing his unsaid words away. “It's alright. I know it's true.” Unsure of what to say, John swallowed softly, leaning against the counter as well.  
  
Molly turned away from him and stood, taking a few steps, approaching the stool Sherlock sat in. As she approached, the man pulled away from the microscope and stared up at her. John's heart leaped in his chest, for he was certain that the two of them were staring at each other—that if Molly couldn't see Sherlock _now_ , it was only a matter of seconds before she magically could. Instead, she breathed out a shaky sigh, hesitating as she reached out, allowing her fingertips to lightly brush over the base of the microscope.

 

“He came to methe night it all happened,” she finally admitted softly, as if she feared that if she raised her voice, it would crack and waver. “He told me that he thought he was going to die, and that he needed my....my help.”

 

John did his best to listen without piping in, and _continue_ listening without his own mind beginning to babble with itself. Still, there were so many questions he had—mainly, why did Sherlock go to Molly, of all people, instead of him? He could have helped. Though of course, logic had already told him that it had to be Molly, because Molly was the only one that would go unnoticed and unsuspected. Still, that logic did very poorly to combat jealousy.

 

“I helped him arrange it all. His.....death. I helped him fake it.” At that, John nearly had to clutch the counter as it seemed a wave of dizziness smacked him. Hearing someone admit aloud—someone _tell_ him that Sherlock had faked his death—it was the most shocking yet wonderful thing John had ever experienced, he was sure.

 

“His....... _fake_ his death?” John choked out, desperate to make sure that what he was hearing was true. He blinked rapidly, suddenly wondering if this was real—was this Molly Hooper real, or had he conjured her up too? That thought was too much, and he felt almost as if a panic attack was coming on.

 

Molly seemed to sense this, for her eyes widened and she quickly guided John over to the stool Sherlock was sitting in (though as John sat, Sherlock vanished).

 

“John, sit down,” she ordered gently. “Are you alright? You look like a ghost.” John simply shook his head, unable to speak, though he motioned for her to continue—he _needed_ her to continue. “I helped him plan it all...”

 

“How?” John questioned sharply. He didn't understand....you couldn't _fake_ falling off a building, as much as he wanted to believe it. He couldn't wrap his mind around it, and with every second he was beginning to fear even more that none of this was real.

 

“That's.....that'll come later,” Molly simply replied with a shake of her head. “There are more important things. He asked me to do something specifically—to replace his mobile with this one.” She motioned to the evidence bag.

 

“Why?” John quickly asked. He was struggling in finding a balance between calming down, but desperately needing to understand. “Was there something on the mobile he didn't want people to see?” Molly seemed to hesitate at that, considering, before crossing her arms and leaning back against the edge of the counter opposite to John.

 

“He said there was something on it that would prove his innocence—prove that he _wasn't_ a fake.” Furrowing his brow, John shook his head silently before pinching the bride of his nose.

 

“That doesn't make sense.....why would he want to _hide_ evidence that proves him innocent?”

 

“It wasn't safe,” Sherlock's voice breathed down his neck, causing a shiver to instantly shoot down John's spine. He spun to find nobody there—not even his hallucination, yet his heart wouldn't seem to calm down, and his throat was dry. He felt very close to..... _something._ A panic attack? Passing out? _Understanding_? And he didn't know how to feel, emotionally.

 

“John?” Molly murmured cautiously, staring at him in even more concern now. John spun around to face her once more.

 

“Why wasn't it safe?” he demanded, though she simply stared at him in complete confusion.

 

“Why wasn't _what_ safe?” she questioned, hesitating. “John, are you.....are you seeing things?”

 

“Tell me!” John yelled, his voice raising more than it had in a long while. Molly looked frightened now, yet entirely unsure what to do about it—whether she should run or try to calm John down.

 

“He.....There are people after you,” she finally forced out. “People that....he just said it wasn't safe. He had to go into hiding.” John clutched his cane tightly once again, dizziness continuing to hit him in waves. He was relieved and confused all at once, and overall he couldn't determine if he was feeling more positive or negative, or simply......

 

“Where's the mobile?” he questioned, seemingly calmer though Molly was very much aware that he wasn't. In fact, she would have preferred if he'd continue to yell, because the blank, determined yet almost void expression he now wore was.....frankly terrifying.

 

“I-I don't have it,” she admitted, though she quickly continued for fear of what John's reaction would be. “It's in a safety deposit box. He asked me to put it there.” Reaching into her pocket, she quickly produced a notepad and a pen, scribbling down an address and a number on it. She tore the note free and offered it to John. “I haven't been there since I put the mobile in.” She then hurried to a nearby drawer and dug around in it before finding a small key and offering it to John as well. “That's all I can tell you.”

 

John took both the note and the key from her, examining each carefully before tucking them into his pocket. He then glanced up at Molly, eying her suspiciously before nodding.

 

“Thank you,” he replied, quickly hurrying it out. He had another lead, and he couldn't waste anymore time, especially now that he was positive that Sherlock was alive—that he had a chance at _finding_ the man, though the very journey to do so seemed to be pushing him closer and closer to the brink of insanity. He was very much aware that he owed Molly an apology, though he felt that if he offered it now, it would simply be meaningless words called over his shoulder—he'd wait until later before offering to take her to dinner or something.

 

“John!” Molly called after him, and he paused in the doorway, turning to look at her. Perhaps she'd forgotten something? A little extra bit of vital information? The woman studied him for a moment, swallowing softly before murmuring, “I think you should get some help.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably meaningless words, but once again I deeply apologize for taking so long to update this. I've been having some personal issues, so I've been unable to write. Anyways, I'm happy I was finally able to pump out this chapter for you guys, and hopefully another is soon to come, because we are quickly nearing the end of our tale!


	8. The Sigh of Mycroft Holmes

John hurried down the hall, his shoes echoing off the concrete walls and floor with every step as he hurried to get out of the basement of the hospital. Sherlock walked briskly beside him, and Molly's voice joined the echoes in the hallway, calling desperately after John, and John alone, which made it all worse, and simply caused John to walk faster.

 

“You've left your cane behind,” Sherlock pointed out calmly. “That's likely the reason she's calling after you.” John shook his head furiously as he pushed out the doors and ascended up the steps, returning to the ground floor.

 

“That's not it,” John growled in reply, shooting Sherlock a dirty look. Of course Sherlock was mocking him—Sherlock _wasn't_ and idiot. He knew better.

 

 _I think you should get some help_ . The words continued echoing in his mind, just as his shoes had in the hallway, seeming to mock him. But the echos in his mind refused to fade away. No—he didn't need help, he needed Sherlock; he _needed_ to get to the bottom of this, and he was so close, he just knew it.....he was grasping at the string he desperately needed to get a firm grip on. The small string that hinted at safety and happiness—and Sherlock; just Sherlock.

 

He wished people would understand that—yes, he knew he wasn't who he'd once been. His mind had....shifted. It operated differently now, and not for the better. But hell, he still had an ounce of sanity left in him, if nothing more, and with that small bit he was determined to solve the case of Sherlock Holmes.

 

John finally reached the hospital entrance, and didn't stop until he burst from the doors, feeling as if he was suddenly allowed to breathe again once he was outside. The cool air pleasantly burned his lungs as he inhaled deeply. He had in fact left his cane behind in the morgue, and while he regretted it, there wasn't a thing that could get him to turn around to go fetch it. Molly wouldn't come after him, that much he knew. She wouldn't run off in the middle of work—doing that was much too similar to Sherlock, and if there was anything Molly wasn't, it was Sherlock. She'd most likely text him later to apologize, although she had very little to apologize for, and offer to bring the cane by later. John would simply ignore the text and wait a few days before even bothering to reply.

 

Rain was coming down in buckets—a nice heavy London downpour. John was too occupied to care. Luckily he'd had it in his mind to grab the destroyed mobile in the evidence bag as he'd hurried out, which he now gripped firmly in his hand. While it was hardly any use, it _was_ the only piece of physical evidence he had so far. Not only that, but Anderson had risked his job to get it to him, and even John could respect that.

 

It was nearly impossible to hail a cab with it raining so hard. John was certain a great deal of them simply didn't _want_ to stop and let a soggy passenger in, and the others were having a somewhat difficult time seeing in the downpour. After being ignored by at least three cabbies, John growled in annoyance, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was freezing and soaked to the bone—at first he hadn't noticed, but the more frustrated he was growing, the more unpleasant he was beginning to feel.

 

“You could try walking,” Sherlock suggested, holding back a chuckle.

 

“Shut up,” John growled. “It's on Cheval Place. That's nearly twenty minutes away by cab.” He held off on the part that his leg was aching, and he wasn't sure if he could walk that far even if he _wanted_ to. Just then a cab passed by and John threw his hand out desperately. Much to his luck, the cab pulled up to the curb and John slid into it. He gave the cabby the address, reading it off of the now smeared and soggy note Molly had scribbled him.

 

“You're going to check that safety deposit box?” Sherlock questioned doubtfully. “It's probably empty by now.”

 

“I've got the key,” John pointed out, his hand shooting to his pocket to make sure that he did in fact still have it. The cabby gave him an odd look as the car pulled away from the curb, and John swore his heart stopped for a moment at the realization that he'd slipped up once again. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

 

“They often give the customer two keys. Perhaps Molly only had one of them.”

 

John remained quiet, knowing he absolutely had to stop himself from carrying out a conversation with Sherlock in public, which was growing surprisingly difficult to do. That wasn't right.....for a time, it had gotten easier. He'd grown used to seeing Sherlock, and had been very much aware that the man was a creation of his own imagination; he'd trained himself to stay quiet when in public. But recently it seemed to be more challenging—once again the conversation seemed to come to him naturally, and rarely did he catch himself in time.

 

John tried to remain as hopeful a possible during the cab ride, but the more Sherlock prattled on, and the longer John thought about it, the less likely it all seemed. Still, it was the only thing he could grasp for.

 

*

 

The doctor released a defeated sigh as he stared down into the empty safety deposit box. It had been surprisingly easy getting past the front desk to see it—once he'd given them his name and ID, the woman behind the desk typed something into the computer (at an amazing speed—John couldn't imagine how she'd learned to type so fast). She'd then smiled, as if he'd been expected, and led him (with Sherlock trailing close behind) back to the many rows of boxes.

 

It gave John a little boost of hope, seeing the extensive security measures that were taken to ensure the safety of....whatever it was people kept in their deposit boxes. Money, files, jewelry- it was very unlikely that someone could get into a box they weren't supposed to. Two keys were necessary to retrieve the box—his own key, as well as one the woman pulled from her skirt pocket. Even after the box was opened, a smaller box was removed—the actual safety deposit box. That one could only be opened by John's key, and whoever else it was that held a copy if it, if anyone. With a smile, the woman—Jane, John had read on her name tag—led him to a private room before leaving him.

 

John sat and stared at the locked box for a good few minutes, thoughts rolling through his mind. Yes, it was odd that he'd been allowed access to it so easily. Though he'd never had a safety deposit box of his own, from his understanding the process was very structured, and anyone who was to be allowed access had to sign multiple papers in the presence of a banker, as well as the customer who was renting out the box. And of course, John had signed no such papers..... Either the security was a lot more lax than he'd previously thought, or someone had gone through measures to ensure that John _had_ access to the box, obviously knowing that he would come looking for it...

 

Yet John now stared down into an empty box, feeling more confused than ever. It made no sense. Why would someone allow him access to an empty box?

 

“Seems someone has beat us to it,” Sherlock stated. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the nearby wall.

 

“It doesn't make sense...” John murmured before breathing out a frustrated sigh. It wouldn't get him anywhere to dwell on it—he had to think, not feel. Sherlock smirked. John continued. “So there's at least one other key, but we don't know who has it.”

 

“We don't?”  


“Perhaps the front desk would tell us....”

 

“You really think they'd simply release that information?” Sherlock questioned with an arched brow. “Do you really _need_ them to in order to figure it out?” John sat back in his chair and stared into the empty box, as if the answer would suddenly appear from within it.

 

“Well....it's obviously someone who knew about Sherlock's plan—whatever that plan _was_ ,” John stated.

 

“Or?”

 

“Or.....someone who could figure it out. _Fast_.” Sherlock pushed away from the wall, clearly ready to get out of the stuffy bank building.

 

“Seems you're almost there.”  


“Someone who thinks as fast as Sherlock—or perhaps even faster.”

 

*

 

The Diogenes Club was a short cab ride away from the safety deposit box bank, and John did his best to calm himself as they passed the many buildings, cars, and oblivious people living about their daily lives; idiots, the lot of them. They lived through life blindly, accepting any information fed to them as truth, like _children._

 

John knew better—he'd grown to understand the importance and truth behind observation.

 

“You see, but you don't _observe_ ,” Sherlock had always said, and that seemed to be the truth of the world. John had been like everyone at first, simply believing Sherlock Holmes to be a genius—but he knew better now. That was far from the truth. True, Sherlock's intellect was incomparable to the average person, but without the discipline and practice, that was _nothing._ John had learned first hand that skills of observation weren't something you were necessarily born with—though genetics could play a role—but they were something you practiced and honed until they became natural. It was not unlike a foreign language; it was the language of the world. The world gave you what was necessary to find the truth, but you had to _work_ and _learn_ how to spot those things—the small things that mattered.

 

Still, even with practice and discipline, John doubted that he could ever be like Sherlock Holmes. His mind just wasn't suited for that type of thing, though he had clearly picked up on some of Sherlock's methods. Hopefully some would be enough.

 

Sherlock stared distastefully out of the cab window at the building as John paid the cabby. John then awkwardly, and somewhat painfully, worked his way out of the cab, desperate for the support of his cane.

 

“It really is unfortunate that we ended up here,” Sherlock muttered before breathing out a dramatic sigh. “Though of course, there was no other path. It's all come down to this.” He fell silent after breathing out a soft chuckle, and John stared at him curiously. It had stopped raining during the cab ride, but John's clothes were already soaked to the bone, leaving him shivering, and feeling rather too much like a wet dog. He stared at Sherlock silently for a moment, a question picking at his mind—it all led to here? What did _that_ mean? Was this it, then? The final destination? The answer to all his questions?

 

Sherlock continued staring at the building thoughtfully before slowly glancing at John, as if only just then realizing his silence. He smirked, clearly picking up on John's silent questions. “Many people underestimate my brother,” he stated. “But you don't.”

 

John breathed out a heavy sigh—that didn't answer _any_ of his questions.

 

“Yes, well, with what I've seen of your brother, I know _better_ than to underestimate him.” Sherlock continued to smirk, though he seemed to be teetering on the edge of being extremely irritated at the fact that John thought of Mycroft on equal level with him, while at the same time being proud that John wasn't like all the other idiots that underestimated him. It seemed the latter won out.

 

“People often mistake me as being smarter than my brother,” he finally stated as John crossed the street without bothering to check for cars.

 

“That may be the closest thing to a compliment I've ever heard you say,” John jabbed, forcing back a chuckle. Sherlock ruffled at this.

 

“Don't mistake me, John,” he growled in protest. “True, Mycroft's ability to observe and deduce is superior to mine. In fact, though unfortunate, I'd go as far to say that many cases it takes me days to solve, he could solve in a matter of hours. But skill is nothing without action, John. His highly honed skills of deduction are wasted, merely due to the fact that—”

 

“He's lazy,” John finished, cutting into Sherlock's sentence. The doctor could think back to the case of Andrew West and the Bruce Partington plans, when Mycroft had come to Sherlock for help. No doubt Mycroft could have solved the case in very little time—especially since Sherlock had continued to refuse to work on the case—but had merely declined to do so simply because it would have involved “legwork”. Sherlock looked like a proud parent.

 

“Very good, John. You understand what my brother's capable of, yet still you don't think too highly of him I see.”

 

John said nothing else as the two of them walked up the stairs into the lobby of The Diogenes Club. Perhaps he was biased due to his treatment upon his first visit to the place, but John had never liked it there—always made him feel uncomfortable. And he had good reason to—he had become somewhat known as the idiot who barged in babbling about Mycroft Holmes, and had been the lucky recipient of numerous dirty looks from the regulars ever since.

 

By now of course, he knew his way to Mycroft's office. Like Molly, John at times wondered if Mycroft ever went _home_. Did he ever sleep, or was he more like Sherlock in that department?

 

Upon reaching Mycroft's office, John gave the door a brief knock before walking it without bothering to wait for a reply. The older Holmes brother, who sat at his desk, stood lazily as John walked in, his eyes not leaving whatever document it was he was currently browsing.

 

“Afternoon John,” he greeted extremely unenthusiastically. “I saw you coming.” No further explanation of course, and though John stared at the man with frustration, he didn't bother asking, because he'd experienced Mycroft's spying abilities first hand—the man had eyes everywhere.

 

“You don't seem surprised to see me. Good to know I was expected.” Mycroft nodded lazily in reply, motioning to a chair before finally setting down and closing the file he'd been perusing. John sat down without a single protest.

 

John often stood when he spoke to others—such as when he went to see Molly at the lab (until his leg bothered him too much and Molly would insist he sit), or when he'd first met Mycroft, and even when he spoke to Mrs. Hudson at times. However, in his mind, you stood for one of two reasons when addressing someone else—reason number one was respect. It was polite to stand at attention and address someone, especially if they were higher rank than you. The second reason was fear—if you had reason to fear someone, you were _safer_ standing at attention, ready to act without thinking if necessary to defend yourself. John didn't want to give Mycroft any ideas, because he neither respected or feared the man (though he knew it was foolish not to).

 

“I can see you've been doing rather poorly.” As usual Mycroft's words were calm and smooth, which seemed to cut into John even more. So how long exactly had Mycroft been watching up on him?

 

“It was to be expected,” Sherlock stated with a shrug, and John's eyes wandered over to the man, Mycroft staring at him, his own eyes narrowed, before silently pouring himself a glass of whiskey that probably cost more than John made in a month at the surgery.

 

Mycroft drank often when John came to see him (though it was true that that was somewhat of a rare occurrence), and John often wondered why. Mycroft took him as a man who could drink as much as he pleased and never get the slightest bit drunk, even if that was the goal. Yet John sensed an odd familiarity with the man that he sensed in himself—the feeling of needing to lose yourself to any substance that would offer an escape. The same need the Lestrade had fallen prey to as of late. Of course, Mycroft wasn't an idiot—he wouldn't lose himself to hard drugs, and certainly nothing illegal. He was posh and proud, and he valued his position. Still, he drank as if to escape, though knowing for better or for worse that the alcohol offered no effects for him. He never offered John any, which the doctor was secretly grateful for—Mycroft was no doubt able to read John's family history of alcoholism by his fingernails, or something equally as ridiculous.

 

“What is it I can do for you?” Mycroft questioned, finally pulling John's gaze away from Sherlock who had busied himself with glancing over the numerous, and no doubt highly classified documents that littered Mycroft's usually uncluttered desk.

 

“I think you know why I'm here.” The older Holmes gave John a simply questioning look, causing John to sigh before continuing. “A mysterious safety deposit box that I have access to, in which Sherlock's mobile was placed by Molly Hooper following his death, completely empty. I don't have the mobile, and neither does Molly, so you would be the next logical person.”

 

“Would I?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mock surprise as he took a sip of the whiskey. John could have strangled him.

 

“Mycroft,” John growled, “I'm just trying to figure this all out.”

 

“What is there to figure out?” Mycroft set down his glass on a coaster. “I think the events on that day were fairly self-explanatory.”

 

“No they _weren't!_ ” Sherlock glanced at John at the sound of the man's voice rising. “It all doesn't add up, and you _know_ it. Sherlock was far too full of himself to just give in like that. You know he wasn't a fake—you're his _brother_. And Moriarty suddenly vanishes?” Mycroft continued to stare at John with an unreadable expression—though it was unlike any other look Mycroft had given him before. Many times the man had looked at John as if he were looking at a primary school student—John recognized the look, because Sherlock had done it as well. Now however, Mycroft stared at him unsure for once, and somewhat....impressed, as if that primary school student had worked through a complex calculus problem.

 

After the silence continued for far too long, John dug in his pocket and pulled out the destroyed mobile. “I got hold of this,” he finally stated, not bothering to mention _how—_ he wasn't going to go _out_ of his way to get Anderson fired. “I know it's not Sherlock's mobile, and if I know, then you obviously do too. Molly told me everything—so why don't _you_?”

 

Mycroft Holmes was defeated. Of course, with a wave of his hand he could turn John away—have the man escorted out or something. He didn't have to _deal_ with John if he didn't choose to, because he had that power. Still, it seemed he chose to be defeated rather than brush John aside.

 

“Why is it you're so desperate to figure this all out?” he questioned. Not a question John had been expecting.

 

“Why? Because Sherlock's my......he's important to me,” John admitted hesitantly. “And things don't add up. Sherlock would do exactly what I'm doing—he'd examine every bit of evidence until the truth was made obvious. I've learned not to trust the media. Sherlock said that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Well the information I've been fed.....doesn't add up with what I know.”

 

After staring at John silently once more, Mycroft made his way around his desk. Hesitantly, he produced a key from his breast pocket and unlocked one of the drawers, before pulling out the mobile— _Sherlock's_ mobile. John's heart leaped—it was like an oasis in the middle of a desert. It was the answers he needed, he was sure. It was the map to understanding.

 

“Seems I've underestimated you,” Mycroft stated, glancing down at the mobile in his hand. “Sherlock didn't though. At the time, I thought he was foolish— _so_ very foolish, but he insisted on the possibility that you'd figure it all out.” He fell silent, fiddling with the phone a bit; he turned it on and pressed a number of buttons, and John was unsure as to whether he was accessing something simple like the mobile's photos, or if the man was typing in some secret code that would reveal hidden documents. Mycroft made his way around his desk once more and offered the phone to John.

 

John stared at it, completely frozen—unable to take it. Three years of therapists and suffering....he'd worked up to this, this simple _mobile_. It had the secrets he needed to know, and it was terrifying. His mind was numb, though he forced himself to reach out and take the phone, staring at the screen. An audio file—a simple file that had been recorded onto the phone. The date read that of Sherlock's death.

 

The blond felt sick with anxiety—he'd fought in a war, watched his friends die, yet this was the most terrifying thing he'd ever done, he was sure. His thumb moved, hovering over the 'play' button before finally pressing it. There was a garbled silence before voices began to speak.

 

“ _Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get ya'?”_

 

“ _Richard Brook.”_

 

“ _Nobody seems to get the joke....but you do.”_

 

“ _Of course.”_

 

“ _'Atta boy.”_

 

“ _Richard Brook in German is Reichenbach—the case that made my name.”_

 

And it went on, and on—John heard them, Sherlock and Moriarty, but it didn't seem real. Yet it was proof—the closest thing to concrete proof that Sherlock wasn't a fake. And then—

 

“ _Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't.”_

 

“ _......John.”_

 

“ _Not just John, **everyone**.”_

 

“ _Mrs. Hudson.”_

 

“ _ **Everyone.** ”_

 

“ _Lestrade.”_

 

“ _Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. And there's no stopping them now— unless my people see you jump.”_

 

John listened to it all—the entire conversation, as all was revealed. A gunshot—the bloodstain. Moriarty had killed himself.... Sherlock had been threatened. The very thing he'd tried to avoid—emotions and relationships—were what had killed him in the end. And Molly....she'd been overlooked. Of _course_ she had. Jim Moriarty had seen first hand how Sherlock had treated the morgue attendant—it was no wonder he'd paid no attention to her. Surely Sherlock wouldn't die for a wallflower like _Molly Hooper_ . But that had been the mistake Moriarty had made, because the mere fact that Molly was _always_ overlooked was the one thing that made her the perfect person for Sherlock to go to for help.

 

The recording continued, all through the phone call John himself had had with Sherlock—hearing it again caused a lump to form in his throat, and it was all he could do to force back tears. He would _not_ cry in front of Mycroft Holmes.

 

“So he was blackmailed into it,” John finally stated, clearing his throat once the recording had ended. Still, his voice was quiet as he tried to maintain control over it. “It still doesn't make sense though.....he clearly went to Molly ahead of time and planned to replace his mobile with a fake one. That meant.....he somehow must have figured it out ahead of time—he had to have somehow _known_ in order to make preparations like that.” Mycroft gave a sharp nod.

 

“He did know,” the man confirmed. He breathed out a sigh—the sigh of Mycroft Holmes, John thought, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. John had never noticed how _tired_ Mycroft looked. Was that recent? Or had he always been so tired?.... “My brother figured it out as Moriarty's plan began to play out. The evening Scotland Yard came to arrest him, he'd already begun to work through the plan.” John's heart leaped with hope, and he failed to notice Sherlock staring at him wearily from the desk.

 

“If...” John hesitated, “If he knew Moriarty's plan ahead of time, than he should have easily been able to come up with something..... _some_ way out.” John was very much aware that it sounded foolish—ridiculous even. He'd _been_ there—he'd seen Sherlock jump to his death—checked his pulse himself, only to find nothing. And listening to the recording of Sherlock's last conversation with Jim.....how could you sneak out of that situation? The very fact that John was alive was proof in itself that Sherlock Holmes _had_ to be dead. But still....

 

“He did,” Mycroft said, his voice steady and....icy. “John, he found a way out—he made a plan to fake his death.” John's eyes widened in shock, and he stared up at the man, his voice caught in his throat. Mycroft stared back, no longer looking tired, but simply.....blank, as if he was preparing himself for something unpleasant. “He found a way out, John, but.....Sherlock is dead.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm alive (did I nearly getcha?) Been over a month since I updated, so once again apologies (I'm sure they're empty apologies by now ;w;). Anyways, I've been overwhelmed- I had my birthday, then a week later I ran off to a convention, and finally now I'm packing up to move off to university. Also- first weekend of October is Sherlock Seattle! I'll be attending once again :D  
> Anyways, as far as the story goes- we're nearing the end! :0 Oh my god. That's right- one more chapter to this tale, and that's it! And honestly, it'll most likely be short compared to the previous chapters. Once again, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave reviews! :D Hobey ho!


	9. The Death of John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Well, here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem; the final problem. Staying alive.”
> 
> “I told you how this ends.”
> 
> “The clue's in the name.”

Confusion. John had spent so long being confused....so long, in fact, that he was growing certain that it was the worst feeling. Worse than anger or sorrow; worse than hatred. Just confusion.....because it was a groggy feeling, as if a mist had settled over his mind, preventing him from thinking clearly. Whereas emotions such as anger and hatred were concrete, confusion.....wasn't. You didn't know _what_ to feel, and that could be worse than feeling something unpleasant.   


John had once been told by one of his therapists that there was no such thing as a  _wrong_ emotion— that if someone ever told you that you “shouldn't feel that way”, that you should just tell them to sod off; one was allowed to feel however they did, and it wasn't wrong or right—it just  _was_ . But John had never really believed that.

 

John felt dizzy with confusion, and he must have been silent for an eternity. Mycroft looked as if he'd seen a ghost, though John was far too lost to notice. In a hazy state, John was guided to a chair by the man, and this time he made no protests as he sunk into it, though the dizziness remained.

 

“I don't understand,” he said simply, though it wasn't his voice—it was some foreign voice he didn't recognize. Certainly not his.

 

Sherlock stood what seemed a mile away, on the opposite side of the room, and for once, he looked absolutely terrified—John has never seen such a look in Sherlock's eyes. Had they looked like that when he'd stood on the edge of St. Bart's? No.....it had been fake. It wasn't true. But he was gone.....he was dead......

 

“I don't understand,” John repeated—not John.

 

“Take a moment, John. I'll get you a drink,” Mycroft said smoothly, and John nearly tackled him for being so calm—for not drowning in the confusion that he currently was in. He wanted to jump up and grab the man's throat—no, not that.

 

“I don't need a drink!” John yelled, jumping from his seat. He wouldn't sit—he needed to move. “Tell me!”

 

Sherlock murmured something that didn't register in John's mind, and Mycroft took a step away from the doctor, seeming to debate for a moment as to whether or not he should call security.   
  
“He figured it out,” Mycroft finally stated, repeating what he had said previously. While he seemed focused on what he was saying, he never took an eye off John, as if determining whether or not the blond would attack him. “Yes, you figured out most of it. He knew ahead of time, and he made a plan to fake his death— to  _disappear_ . You heard on the recording, John. It was the only way to ensure your safety.”

 

Too slow—Mycroft was talking too slow. John needed to escape this confusion. It was making its way into his lungs;  _suffocating_ him, and Mycroft clearly didn't understand. John's fingers twitched—they needed something. A gun, a knife, anything to make Mycroft talk faster. 

 

“You're not making any—”

 

“Moriarty's men, John,” Mycroft interrupted, staring at the doctor with cold eyes. “They were everywhere. A giant web covering the entire world. He couldn't just come out of hiding—they would have killed him. They would have killed _you_. He had to take out every one of Moriarty's men that could possibly come after him, or anyone he.....cared for.” John felt sick and dizzy and he couldn't _breathe—_ suffocating. He was suffocating. 

 

“I-I don't.....” Understand. He couldn't see, and he could barely speak. A thick voice as eyes blurred, hot messy tears tumbling down his cheeks. He wouldn't cry.....he was crying. When had he last cried? There had been hope for so long.....it was vanishing. Hope was his oxygen.

 

“A few months ago. I received news that he was in America at the time, quite under the radar of course. One of Moriarty's men....” John shook his head. No no no....  
  


“H-how....how...” It's all he could say.

  
“A bullet. A single bullet. One wrong move is all it takes.” Silently, Mycroft stood and made his way back to his desk. He opened the drawer he had produced the mobile from previously, and pulled out a plain manilla folder before returning to John. Gently—so very gently—the older Holmes brother—the  _living_ Holmes brother—set the folder on the small table near where John stood. “His folder. Look at it, John.”

 

“No.” John was experiencing waves—pain and anger and an unbearable grief, and then.....numbness. And it would start over, hitting him with an almost physical force.

 

“ _Look_ at it, John!” Mycroft demanded, raising his voice. He clenched his jaw and opened the folder, holding up an enlarged photograph. All at once John was certain that he was going to vomit. It rose into his throat and he did all he could to force it down as he stared at the photo through his blurred vision.

 

Sherlock—beautiful Sherlock Holmes—lay lifeless on an autopsy table. And there was no mistaking this—not like the Irene Adler case. To John, nobody could be Sherlock but Sherlock himself. This was Sherlock..... _his_ Sherlock. Sheet white and frozen in an endless sleep, his lovely curls falling in a halo around his head. And a bullet hole- right over the heart. One single bullet to the heart.....

 

And John wept bitterly. How cruel—how so very cruel. Not the mind, but the  _heart_ . It had been the damn heart. Even in his own death, Moriarty had found the cruelest way to prove that Sherlock Holmes did in fact have a heart.

 

“Impossible,” John sobbed, still forcing down vomit—still trying to not completely collapse. “He couldn't......it's impossible....”

 

And as Mycroft Holmes stared at John with the most genuine sympathy he was capable of, John Watson suffocated.

 

“Of course he could, John. He was only human.”

 

*

 

He stands on a tall building, his bipod positioned, resting on the ledge of the rooftop. The butt of his rifle rests on his shoulder, balancing out the weight between that and the bipod. His eyes are empty and blank, yet focused as he waits for the opportune moment. It has to be perfect.....it's always perfect. He's a perfect shot.

 

His mind is groggy, but all that matters is this moment. There is no past, and if there was, it's forgotten now—a story in a book that has been closed.

 

Far off a flat labeled 221B sits abandoned, full of belongings that were once important—full of the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Full of the memories of two men that were all that mattered in their eventful world. Two men that destroyed one another with the bond they shared.

 

“That's a rather unfortunate angle,” Sherlock states, standing behind him with his arms crossed. He scowls, calculations running through his head.

 

The sniper ignores him, because he can't lose focus—not until this job is done. There's always a new job, and that's good, because he needs to stay busy. He can't stand mingling around idly. He stares through the scope, watching his target intently. Closer....the moment is growing closer.....his blood is burning with excitement; it's on fire.

 

“Oh, hush,” another voice sings behind him. Jim grins at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes in return, and the smaller man straightens his suit before moving to take a seat beside the bipod, his legs dangling over the edge of the building. “He's doing just fine. He'll make the shot.”

 

“I'm certain he will. I'm merely pointing out that there were better options.”

 

“Doesn't matter. He never misses,” Jim snaps before turning to grin at the blond. “Hey tiger, now that you're living the naughty life, you'll have to come up with a new name. John Watson just won't do.”

 

He clenches his jaw, and Sherlock moves closer behind him in anticipation.

 

His finger slowly tightens on the trigger.

 

“Sebastian Moran.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello, we've reached the end! 
> 
> Well, the clue really was in the name. In Shakespearean times, a tragedy was a play or a story that ended in a death, or something equally as tragic, while a comedy had a happy ending, often including a marriage. From the beginning this was always going to be a tragedy- we end with the death of John Watson. Of course, it's not a physical death, rather an emotional and mental death. 
> 
> The story was outlined, so I knew where everything was headed. I really want to apologize, because I feel like this could have been so much better! Thank God I'm not going to be an author. I'm too much of a slacker, and I know there are many parts that I got lazy about, so I can't apologize enough.
> 
> I had a great deal of fun writing this though, because writing it, I wanted the audience to have the same feel as John- I wanted the audience to be almost equally as unsure as John was as far was what was reality and what wasn't. Perhaps I didn't portray that as well as I would have liked. Still, I just wanted to leave the audience wondering. 
> 
> I apologize for the last chapter being so short, but it was meant more as an epilogue I suppose. Thank you all so much for bothering to read this, and I hope you enjoyed it to the end! 
> 
> Hobey Ho!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["The Tragedy Of John Watson" Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/984901) by [The_Consulting_Storyteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Consulting_Storyteller/pseuds/The_Consulting_Storyteller)
  * ["The Tragedy Of John Watson" Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/984901) by [The_Consulting_Storyteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Consulting_Storyteller/pseuds/The_Consulting_Storyteller)




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